Didn't I Feed You Yesterday__ A Mother's Guide to Sanity in Stilettos - Laura Bennett [36]
Apparently adults need to be special these days, too. Peanut hysteria seems to be part of a wave of new serious conditions that went either unnamed or unacknowledged when I was growing up—conditions like lactose intolerance, formerly known as burping and farting; restless legs syndrome, formerly known as “Get up and take a walk;” or the grand-daddy of all illnesses that didn’t previously exist, chronic fatigue syndrome, formerly known as motherhood.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m hardly the perfect school mommy. In fact, I think I’ve given new meaning to No Child Left Behind. My worst mommy crimes tend to happen when I forget where all my kids are. My friend Libby has had to call me several times at 8:30 P.M. because I’ve forgotten to pick Truman up from an “afterschool” hangout. I’ve also gone to Beau’s house to get Truman when he’s actually at Mason’s, and one time Peik went to spend the night at Gordon’s and it took me a couple of days to figure out that he wasn’t home. Of course Alicia knew where he was, but it didn’t even occur to me to ask her. Even little Finn has made his escape from my Alcatraz by slipping unnoticed down the elevator and into the lobby before being stopped by a neighbor.
Luckily for me, my kids are very self-reliant around the apartment. They take this practice to the extreme when they are guests elsewhere—I’ve often been thanked at the late pickup time (when I’ve eventually remembered where that missing kid must be) for how gracious and helpful my son is, how he put his dishes in the sink or he played with the younger children while the mom took a shower, worked out, what have you. Still, as full as my house is, it probably wouldn’t hurt for me to do a head count around six instead of at eight-thirty, when Nicole is lining them up for baths.
I NEVER UNDERSTAND THE MOTHERS WHO GET EXCITED JUST BEFORE summer break, as if getting to sleep for thirty extra minutes in the morning is worth having to take care of your own kids all day. Sure, camp helps, but there is no camp that can possibly accommodate all five of my boys. Besides, sleepaway camps don’t take toddlers. Not for three straight months, anyway.
As September rolls around, I joyfully get the kids ready for school. I secure the necessary color-coded folders and three-ring binders. I stock up on loose-leaf paper and mechanical pencils. I fill out all the necessary forms and artfully forged vaccination records so that everything appears up-to-date. I dig out backpacks with operating zippers, and rotate summer clothes, providing easy access to back-to-school wardrobes. I line up nannies and mannies, reading tutors and homework helpers, because God knows New York City private school tuition is not enough to cover the actual cost of education. Armed with the appropriate pharmaceuticals, I can sit back and watch my carefully hatched plan spring into action: avoid the children during school hours at all costs.
This fall I made it exactly one month into classes before having to set foot on campus. Not an easy feat, but between my husband, the afternoon nanny, and my oldest coming and going on his own, I was able to rig it so that others did the dropoffs and pickups. Then Nicole fell sick and I had to pick up Pierson. I didn’t know where his classroom was or who his teachers were. I spotted a familiar face, the father of one of my son’s friends.
“Hi, Dan.”
“Hi, Laura.”
“How are things?”
“Fine.”
“If I were to want to pick up a child in first grade, what floor would I be on?” I asked sheepishly.
“You don’t know where Pierson’s classroom is, do you?” Busted.
There are mothers who wouldn’t dream of missing a moment of their child’s educational