Rounding the last corner to school this morning, first-grade daughter Camilla and I wrapped up our conversation:
Me: Does the teacher open the door at 8:05 when the bell rings?
Daughter: No, the teacher opens the door a few minutes earlier. That bell is for the parents to leave.
Because if they (we) weren’t warned those (we) parents would stick around all day, sipping Starbucks, yapping, and checking on the kids to see what they’re doing. Some parents plainly in helicopter mode; others, well…
…I, for one, enjoy a pre-school mixer. If CJ rode a bus to school I’d have way fewer opportunities to make friends. But. What is twisted in this world (and hung to dry ’til crunchy and twisted), that CJ and I both second-guessed a little bit when we decided how she’d get dropped off this morning?
I asked her if she’d like me to pull up and just let her out of the van. Instead of parallel parking on the neighborhood street with a thicket of manzanita on one side and traffic on the other, unbuckling little brother and dragging him along the quarter mile walk, just so she can drop her backpack by the wall and join her friends on the playground for a few minutes. Which is what we usually do. After a moment’s processing, her eyes got wide and she said, “Yeah! That would be cool!”
And lo, she was in one piece when I picked her up this afternoon. No signs of delinquency. I received no phone calls from school saying she was absent or got mauled by the neighborhood cat. So there.
How did you get to and from school when you were a kid? Did you walk? Ride the bus? Ride your bike? Slog ten miles in the snow, uphill both ways? With your mom or dad carrying your backpack for you?