Noah had crummies in the tummy today, so I took Sam to our Kindergarten parent-teacher conference this afternoon. Sam is through with Summer. Mommy and Daddy have exhausted our usefulness and he is desperately searching for some additional stimulation.
I now know the biggest secret of every parent. Mothers might cry when they watch their children get on the bus for the first time, but for the next 13 years, the first day of school ranks right up there with losing one's virginity in terms of sheer celebratory value. The mommies on our street all gathered on the corner after the school bus was out of sight and broke open two bottles of champagne.
So needless to say, Sam was pretty excited to be finally getting into his new classroom. I sat down in the undersized chair across the table from the teacher while Sam was quizzed in depth by the teacher's aid. While I listened to a speech that she had given at least two dozen other parents before me, Sam answered questions like, "Do you know your name? What's your address? You telephone number? Okay, can you tell me what a single letter is in this word? A single word in this sentence? Okay, great!"
When the droning speech was finished, I had the same packet of papers to fill out that we handed in to the school office last June. But I now know that if I don't put Sam's milk money in the big plastic zip-lock bag in his backpack, then it will magically disappear into the elementary school ether. I also know that . . . nope, that's everything I came away with. Very informative.
The teacher asked Sam if he wanted to show me his new locker. He jumped up and ran out the door, thus signaling the end of our meeting. I walked out into the corridor to see the locker.
Guess what number he has.
Come on, guess. Heh, heh.