Yes, my baby is going to school for the very first time. Yes, I am aware of this fact- there is no denying it… and while the selfish part of me wants to keep him ALL to myself for another year (which I could do with his birthday so close to the cut-off)… I know that we would drive each other completely batshit insane and so he MUST go.
He MUST go.
I’m figuring if I say it enough times, I’ll believe it myself. It certainly doesn’t feel like 5 years since I blew my vag to bits… not that I’m feeling my vag all the time or anything- but you would figure a vag would have a recollection of these kinds of trauma- but it doesn’t. Not even with a little brother that blew it apart after. The vag remembers nothing. I guess I should be thankful for that- but it makes it hard to accept that I have a child OLD enough (and therefore I am old enough by relation) to be sent away to learn from someone else, with a bunch of other kids.
But he MUST go.
HE MUST GO.
Seriously, he must.
Even though I know he must, I know it’s been a long time coming, I’ve bought the supplies, planned the route to get him there, written about it, had long conversations about how he can’t be a complete a-hole to everyone around him, or bite his nails… or his toenails… I suppose I had not quite come to terms with it; and I didn’t realize I hadn’t come to terms with it until his school’s Open House- which just so happened to be last night.
I’m not exactly sure what I was expecting it to be like. I haven’t been in Kindergarten for 23 years, so it isn’t like I remember it fondly other than that my teacher was a gigantic fucking bitch who sat me in the corner for accidentally flicking my “doodle” (that’s what I called a Scruncii, which is what my mom convinced me it was called. Thanks for that, mom) across the room.
I guess I figured we’d (we being the, gulp, parents) find out what classroom to go to, go there, sit cross-legged on a fucking carpet and be read Magic Schoolbus stories. Or at least I figured we’d be told what they would be learning that year, get to know his teacher, maybe meet some of his future friends (and of course, lady friends).
What it was was a gigantic clusterfuck of people and confusion and things to read and pick up, and once we finally made our way to his classroom to meet his teacher (NOT before he stopped and insisted on using ‘the weird bathroom!’), we were inundated with paperwork.
“Please go over this with your child and have them sign it along with yourself and turn it in”
Lady, are you kidding me? He’s 4. He’s not going to understand nor give two farts in space about the codes of conduct and attendance rules. Derp. Whatever. I had him sign it in his derpy-ass handwriting and turn that shit in (he was proud, it was cute… if only she’d been paying attention).
And then comes the list; the list of his likes and dislikes, this and that and random other shit I honestly had not ever even given thought to, even though I spend ALL of my time with the twerp.
What’s his favorite color? Fuck if I know. So I ask him. I don’t remember what the hell he said, because I had my ass crammed into a tiny little chair with tennis balls at the bottom of each leg because, well, even if you remember nothing about school you remember the screeching sound of chairs on a tile floor and how absolutely horrid it was- anyway, no, I don’t remember his favorite color but I’d be willing to put money on that he just pulled one out of his ass. I don’t think even HE knows his favorite color.
What are some of his favorite activities? Uhhh… Picking his nose while i’m not looking and eating it before I notice? Calculating the amount of time it takes me to realize he’s wiped his ass and thrown the poo-paper in the trashcan instead of the toilet? Whittling circus animals out of driftwood he collects on the beach? How the hell do you answer this? DRAWING AND DANCING. Fuck off!
What’s his favorite superhero? Captain fucking America, I don’t fucking KNOW! GAH! We don’t do superheros here. We do pirates and zombies- you know, characters that don’t need creep-ass codpieces in order to fight evil or whatever the hell it is that they do.
What is his favorite thing to do outside? COME ON. Are these real questions? Am I being Punkd? Yet again, fuck if I know- so I ask. “RUN!”
Ok kid, I know that you act like a monkey on hallucinogenics whilst playing outside, but did you really need to inform everyone else that you’re the special kid that won’t even LOOK at the playground because you’ll be too busy making circles in the grass? Sigh.
Will you be “room mom”- what the hell is room mom? This isn’t like the ghetto PTA is it? ‘Cause that shit is $5 to join and n one told me I needed cash and I really thought PTA meant “Parents To Avoid”.
No, Room Mom is basically “you get to be the bitch and call and harass everyone for gingerbread house supplies because people suck and choose to ignore flyers the teacher sends home”
I’m going to pass on that, thank you very much.
And then I get hit with the punch in the gut (as if knowing NOTHING about my kid wasn’t enough)- see, here I thought school didn’t start until Labor day. I thought Labor day was NEXT Monday. I thought wrong. Labor day is THIS Monday and my BABY IS LEAVING ME THIS TUESDAY!
Pardon me while I gasp for air.
I also blame my vag- you know, the one that doesn’t remember anything- for not fucking allowing me to remember dates. OBVIOUSLY, all of my recollection ability escaped through my birth canal the moment I shoved new life into this world.
He MUST go.
HE MUST GO!!!
Yeah… I’m going to be a sobbing hysterical mess- but it’s going to embarrass the shit out of him, so at least there’s that to look forward to.
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