VivaCity

A visit to dooce.com is always good for a chuckle and a reality check. Why did I stop writing, again? I'm just as good as any of the other 2.5 billion pointless bloggers out there, am I right? Can I get an Amen?! No? That's fine, too. Your surf-weary, slack-jawed, undivided attention is all I really require. Aaand...veg.

We are entering a brave new world. My oldest son starts honest-to-God school in the fall, real elementary school, and I am pissing my pants with fear. He's elated, of course, he's FIVE, what does he know of bullies and teasing and cliques? Kindergarten, dear Reader, is the gateway to hell and you know it. This is how it begins, milk carton planters made with safety scissors and love and the musty yet wonderful smell of real chapter books in the library...but before too long, it will be Where did you get that shirt, the Goodwill? and Oh my gosh, he's getting straight A's, like, ewww.

I'm desperately trying to reign in my own notions of school-age society and allow him his own experience. I don't want to overshadow his brightly innocent entry into school with my own painful memories of staring at that caged-in clock (why the little cage? anyone??) and fervently wishing the hands forward. Because yes, I did get this shirt at the Goodwill, thanks for asking.

I do recall the change that happened when my parents moved for the last time. I was in the eighth grade, and somehow slipped getting off of the bus and fell into the reasonably-cool crowd. I never looked back. It was WONDERFUL. But worth the eons spent trudging through those elementary and middle school hallways wishing I could melt into the floor? Doubtful. I am not exaggerating, by the way, to those that may enjoy my occasional sarcastic melodrama. I still deal with the residual effects of horrific posture after slouching my way through those growing years. What's a nerd to do.

So it's not quite so simple, for me anyways, as just waving them off on their first real bus ride. There are more crucial decisions to be made, monumental questions to ask myself, like do I risk a cartoon character on his backpack or play it safe and go with a solid color? Do I enroll him in martial arts classes immediately or wait until he's slightly more coordinated before teaching him eight different ways to break a man's neck? Like age six or seven, maybe?

Of course we want the best for our kids. Everyone says, I want my kids to have more than I had. I say, I want them to have 25 times as much as I had. And I'm not just speaking financially, I mean in the richness of their school experiences and beyond. LAWD am I ever digressing into sappiness. Throw me a lifeline here, I'm drowining in this sickly sweet shit.

Let me wrap this up before the flies start circling. When my son starts school in the fall, I hope to find a happy balance for my neurotic ass, somewhere between PTA president and vegan home-schooler. Although I'd happily settle for PTA president.