The Elementary School Years begin ...

 Today is a big day.  The last day of the preschool summer program.  Kindergarten starts next week. 

I am in a panic.  Not really because my baby is going to the big school, though there is a bit of that.  My panic comes from the fact that school starts at 7:30.  If you kid is not in their class by 7:30, they are late.  The school literally locks all the doors except the main front entrance at 7:30.  After 7:30, you have to walk your kid into the office, sign them in, and have them escorted to class.  If they have so many tardies, then the parents start getting in trouble.

The Minion operates on Minion time.  The more you hurry him, the slower he goes.  The only way to rush this child is … I don’t know, because nothing has worked.  He is a master time waster.  I can get him up at 6:30 and he can still manage to find enough distractions so that we don’t make it out the door before 8:30.

I am freaking out.  I hate being late.  It happens almost all the time now, but I still hate it.  It makes me crazy.  For years, if I tell POF we have to LEAVE at 9, he will be getting into the shower at 8:30.  It’s a wonder I haven’t gone crazy just from.  Throw in The Minion’s inability to be hurried into any damn thing, and it’s a miracle that I don’t have a permanent eye twitch.

Preschool was less structured on the time frame, less rules, less schoolish.  Now comes the big school, and I am having mild panic attacks every time I see a new schedule or rule list.  They seem to be endless and encompass every possible thing in the school. 

The class schedule.  Supply list.  Cafeteria schedule.  Cafeteria rules.  Cafeteria payment options, schedule, rules.  After care schedule and payment rules.  School handbook.  PIN codes.  Certain things have to be paid on certain days, in specific ways. You get this info from here, this info from there. It’s too much for my brain to take in while also processing that my baby is in fact going to elementary school.

I actually have a calendar to follow for the after care payment schedule.  They are open on certain holidays and breaks, but you have to register for those days in advance.  So each week there is some sort of note about registration beginning for a certain date several weeks in advance (election day, labor day, fall break, inservice days, the day before Thanksgiving, winter break, etc).  It’s complicated and confusing and Lord, help me not screw this up for my kid.

Tonight is his orientation where we find out which class he is in, meet his teacher, get any other info we need for next week.  He’s excited.  Curious.  A little nervous.  I am losing my shit.  I feel like I need to go into this thing with a calendar planner, spreadsheets, a few charts, some legal pads for notes, and a bunch of envelopes to put certain checks in for certain things, all properly labeled and sealed.

School play ... sure, AFTER you
sit through this PTO meeting.

I have already been warned about the PTO.  Those three letters strike fear in the hearts of parents every where.  There’s no avoiding it though.  Those cagey bastards hold the key to getting my kid’s PIN number.  And this number is used for every function in the school.  Sneaky.  So, I am forced to join the ranks of the PTO parents.  Say a prayer for me.

But next year, the fun starts.  First grade, everything has to be labeled with the kid’s name.  And I mean everything.  A 24 count box of crayons … Yep.  Every single crayon has to be labeled.  A 12 pack of markers … You bet.  Label the maker AND the cap, please.  This is the thing that nervous breakdowns are made of.

And what about next summer.  Dear God, the summer.  Preschool was open year round.  Now I have summer.  Where the heck do I put the kid for the summer?!?!?!  Aaaaand there’s that eye twitch I was wondering about.  Deep breaths.  I need a new subject to dwell on before I end up breathing into a paper bag in my office, while hiding under my desk.

The Fostering of Walter

We have been a dog free household for almost 2 years.  The Minion desperately wants a dog.  I do to.  But, I just haven’t been ready.  

I had my baby girl for 15 years.  She was my first kid.  And my sweet boy was with us for 12 years.  I just haven’t been able to imagine having another animal yet.  Plus, the last couple of years were pretty brutal.  Lots of care and vet visits and it was hard.  I didn't realize how much my life had come to revolve around the care of those two until they were gone.  After 15 years, it was nice to have total freedom for a change … no worries about staying out too late or going out of town, arranging for pet sitters or cleaning up messes when we got home.  It’s been a welcome change.

But I admit, I have desperately missed having a critter in the house.

So, sort of by accident, I ended up agreeing to dog-sit for The Boss for the weekend.  And it was great.  She’s the best dog anyway, so there were no worries about messes or her tearing anything up.  We broke through her well-mannered training and got her to sleep on the couch and on the bed.  It was fun.  She loves to chase the ball, and The Minion had a blast playing with her for three days.  I felt like it was a good test run to see how we would do with a pet.  I enjoyed it, but I was also happy at the prospect of getting my freedom back again.

Then came Walter.

Walter is … Walter has eyebrows ya’ll.  And an underbite.  How could I deny that?  It’s just not possible.

Walter belongs to friends of ours.  He is awesome.  Their landlord is not.  Crazy landlord = Urgent and speedy need to relocate.  This meant, for them, temporarily bunking in with the parents.  Not too terrible, except the stepfather is apparently a soulless monster that hates dogs.  I can’t even comprehend how that is possible.  But whatever.  So … Walter went from being an inside, hanging out, snuggling on the couch kind of dog, to being an outside, chained to a post in the yard kind of dog.  He was sad.  They were sad.  It was sad.

Our friends approached us about the possibility of providing a temporary foster home for Walter.  And, seeing that face, I really couldn't say no.  EYEBROWS.

The Fostering of Walter began.  

Walter is a sweetheart.  Walter has systematically destroyed my mini blinds.  Walter becomes a freaking champion show horse and bounds baby gates like Seabiscuit.  Walter likes to investigate the kitchen trashcan.  Walter’s favorite place to lay is across the back of the couch like a giant cat.  Leather couch + Walter’s feet = NO. Walter is a mess.  And Walter is awesome.

Walter will hip check POF and flat out run down The Minion to get to me when I come in the door after work.  I am his favorite person in the house, and I can admit that I adore that.  I've missed that.  But Walter also loves to cuddle with The Minion in the mornings and to run around the back yard like some sort of gazelle. He will, occasionally, play ball with POF.  Mostly he just sees POF as The Mean One that won’t let him do bad things like sneak scraps or sit next to me on the couch when I eat something, or be mean to innocent visiting critters. (Apparently Walter has decided that new house = new personality, so he's determined to prove he's a dominant badass.  Except, he's not.  Walter has an abundance of confidence and determination, and it's a bit misguided.)

The Minion LOVES Walter.  He knows that he’s temporary, and he’s excited about getting a dog of his own when Walter goes back to his family.  This wasn't planned.  And I am a Grade A Planner.  But it’s good.  I have missed the energy that a critter brings to a house.  I am looking forward to getting our own furry friend after Walter goes back home.  I don’t know what we will do about trips and schedules and all that stuff.  But we will figure it out as we go.  I am excited at the thought of being a dog owner again.

But I do still miss my sweet baby dogs something fierce.  And the idea of having another pet does break my heart a little bit.

Last night, we tried to make a friend for Walter.  Walter does not want friends.  Walter is the weird kid that would rather beat up his potential friends.  Walter tried to get all gangster on a nice little Maltipoo, the epitome of white suburbia.  Needless to say, Walter is still friendless, the Maltipoo thinks Walter is a major asshole, and I have my first canine foster parent fail.  

Walter has some social behavior issues. Because, as mentioned, Walter thinks he's Tupac now.  Walter is so very wrong.  Bless his little furry heart.

This is Walter refusing to look at me after the other dog left.  He knew he should be embarrassed by his terrible host dog behavior. 

A gentleman does not try to mangle his guest.  Usually.  We have rules dammit.  I don't have them written down exactly, but I can say with certainty that We Do Not Maul The Company is one of them.

It comes as a shock to absolutely no one with eyes ...

One of the girls in The Minion’s class has a mother that resembles me.  We both wear glasses.  We both have brown hair, worn basically the same way.  But that’s not really it.  The major similarity is that we are both larger women.  The kids get us mixed up.  Parents have confused me for her and vice versa.  It’s almost funny. Almost.

What gets me though is the look of terror in a teacher’s eye when a kid comments that he/she gets the two of us confused.  Because we all know that reason that they immediately see – and that is that we are both fat.  But the teacher absolutely does NOT want the kid to say that.  So she will frantically start naming off things that we have in common, trying desperately to distract the kid enough so they won’t blurt out the F word.

Part of me wants to just laugh and say it’s okay.  I know I am fat.  But I usually don’t.  It’s more enjoyable to watch them squirm and try not to offend me.  But this past weekend was a bit much, thanks to one of the grandmothers.

A month or so ago, I was at a classmate birthday party and the grandmother was there with the two girls.  Of course, she mistook me for the other mom, and asked me where the daughter was going to kindergarten.  I gently corrected her and told her that I was The Minion’s mom.  She seemed embarrassed and apologized and commented about us looking so similar.  Again, it was an awkward exchange because I know she wanted to state the obvious size thing but instead did the grasping at all other similar details thing.  It was amusing.  But …

This past weekend was her granddaughter’s birthday party.  And both of us were there.  And she just would not let it go.  Would. Not.  Every time I saw her she made a comment about how we could be twins.  And yes, we have the same hair color and our glasses are similar.  And we are both fat.  But beyond that, the similarity really ends.  I don’t know if the grandmother was just overcompensating for all her past mistaken identities or what.  But she was relentless.  Just would not stop about how many things we had in common, physically.  Except the obvious.  At one point, she was actually sort of following us around, babbling about it.  It was embarrassing.

After an hour of this, the party was finally winding down, and we both happened to be leaving at the same time.  She followed us about halfway down the drive saying “Bye Twinsies!!!”, and saying it loudly. Dear Lord, it took everything I had not to strangle that woman at that point.  I am sure she meant well, but damn lady.  Let it go for fucks sake.  Forever.

Now I can’t decide if it amuses me or just pisses me off.  Like if we’d both been super thin with brown hair and glasses, would she have had the same confusion?  Would she have made such a ridiculous deal about it?  For some reason, I think the answer to that is no.  Yep.  Not amused.

I realize I'm fat.  I won't get my feelings hurt if someone calls me fat.  It's more of an eye roll with a "duh". That's like insulting a old person by calling them elderly.  No shit, really? Like, that's the best you got? Seriously?

But I do really wish everyone would stop dancing around the issue, like the elephant in the room.