Mother on Fire: A True Motherf%#$@ Story About Parenting!

by Sandra Tsing Loh

  Her Sharpies are rolling, her Tupperware containers are toppling.

  “Walt?” she asks. “I think the humidity—it keeps curling—I just can’t get this list of LAUSD schools to stick on this wall!”

  “Let me get it,” her husband says.

  “It just—it’s my list,” Joan says helplessly. Her phrasing becomes broken, abrupt, tragic, William Shatner–ish (“Bones…The serum…My arm…Fading…I can’t…”). “The chart is my list. It’s my…‘Into Kindergarten’ list—”

  She turns back, but the mob is restive. This is not closure. They are being offered more questions than they started with, and it doesn’t feel good. A baby in a stroller begins wailing. The mother doesn’t shush her. She stands frozen in space, too anxious even to move.

  “The thing is,” Joan presses on, “our public schools—your public schools—can be improved. There are grants you can write! For beautification! Teaching gardens! New libraries! You can form booster clubs using a 501c3—”

  A 501c3—what is she TALKING about? Our children are being abandoned like kittens in baskets and Joan is jabbering on and on about a 501c3.

  “Take the handouts!” Joan cries. “Where are my handouts? It shows very simply how if you want to start a booster club or educational foundation using a 501c3—”

  Or maybe it could make sense, but utterly depleted by the Vortex of the Snorl, I just can’t follow it.

  “Jonathan Kozol!” Walt cries out. “It’s all about racial integration!” He holds up books showing a sad, dour, sheepdog-faced man. The books have TERRIFYING NAMES IN GIANT LETTERS! SAVAGE INEQUALITY! SHAME OF THE NATION!

  It’s all just too much.

  “It’s for your children!” Joan adds. “Don’t be scared! Your children will thrive!”

  Walt tries to get another banner to stick against the wall. It’s supposed to read:

  Parents for Public Schools

  But the middle keeps collapsing, so it looks like it reads:

  Parents f

  ools

  Or:

  Parents fools!

  Joan and Walt resemble elves encircled on all sides, waving their flimsy weapons, declaring an impossible plan. This year, what, armed with just a telephone tree, they are going to take on the entire city, and the Republicans, and Schwarzennegger?

  I don’t think so!

  I think of what the sweaty dwarf perkily says in The Lord of the Rings. “Certainty of death. Small chance of success. What are we waiting for?”

  3

  Happy Lutherans: Island of the “B” Students

  “I’ve made a new friend,” I announce to Mike. “A mom from Valley Co-Op preschool. We have a lunch date!”

  “Congratulations, honey,” he says. “I knew you could do it. Which mom is it?”

  “Brenda Runyon,” I answer. “Mother of Cal. From the playdate.”

  “Wow!” he says.

  And indeed, for our family, it is a whirlwind.

  To begin with, Hannah has never before had a playdate. Until now, Hannah and her other classmates at Valley Co-Op—all the Colbys, Coleys, Codys, Colins, Coles—have roundly ignored one another (the polite term being “parallel play”). But all at once Hannah and Cal are BEST FRIENDS. Cal has been pestering and pestering his mother to invite Hannah for a playdate, which in my world means: “So you want to take my daughter for three hours for free? Gee—what’s the downside?” (The downside is we’ll have to then invite Cal over. Still.)

  Part Two of the whirlwind is, as stated, my actually fraternizing with another mom from the preschool…

  But Part Three may well be the most exciting…that I’ve decided in the fall, Hannah will be attending Lutheran School. And not just any. No less than the Valley’s best-kept secret, the most up-and-coming Lutheran school around…Luther Hall!

  That part Mike doesn’t know about yet. That I’ve jumped our family onto the back of a new Alpha Mom. That I’ve changed pushy-mother-with-all-the-answers horses. Hitched my wagon to a totally new star.

  It is true Brenda Runyon is a bit of a cipher for me. Brenda, with her shock of brown curls and faded AYSO SOCCER bumper sticker on her giant black Chevy Tahoe. While pleasant, Brenda has always seemed one of the more remote moms at Valley Co-Op. It is true my impression of Brenda’s remoteness may relate to the fact that Brenda is most typically seen at a distance, halfway down the block, as if through a telescopic lens. And if you look closely, as I finally do, you’ll see Brenda…stamping out what appears to be a cigarette—aha! That explains the remoteness! She’s a smoker! Brenda doesn’t smell like smoke, more like a breezy combo of peppermint gum, lemon, and Tic Tacs…But if she is a smoker in Motherland, that means she necessarily leads a secret life.

  When I dropped Hannah off at her playdate with Cal, I noticed Brenda’s home was immaculate (white couches, refreshing scent of cloves…). It was probably less smoky than my own house, given that we live under the Burbank Airport flight path.

  And in that moment it struck me that Brenda was one of the few Co-Op moms I did NOT see at “Into Kindergarten”…which led me to believe she has a kindergarten “ace” up her sleeve…

  So I jumped in, exclaiming, “Are you as confused as we are about this whole school thing? It’s so crazy!” Then I casually asked for a stick of gum—which I consider mother-to-mother code, kind of a sly salute, a sort of polite tipping of the hat to say, “I know you’re a smoker, baby, and Mama’s okay with that.” And it is, indeed, open sesame. Not only did Brenda give me several sticks of Juicy Fruit—one for now, two for the road—she has since opened the door to her secret Brenda Runyon world.

  And at the center of that world is Luther Hall. As opposed to Joan Archer, with the futile, untenable, all-too-giant sweep of her Great Society vision, as regards kindergarten…Brenda has a laser-like focus.

  In Hannah’s cubby the next day, as though part of a covert spy operation, I find a crisp, white, unmarked 81/2-by-11 envelope, smelling lightly of mint. Inside, Brenda has not just printed out a MapQuest for Luther Hall, she has clearly outlined my drive from Van Nuys to North Hollywood in yellow highlighter. At first glance, the yellow route does not appear to be the straightest shot, but an accompanying note explains that since our ideal ETA for the Luther Hall parent tour is 8:45 A.M., we need to factor in TRAFFIC CONTINGENCIES.

  Given how sparingly Brenda uses actual dialogue, it’s a revelation to glimpse inside her brain, to see the complex workings of her inner wheels and dials. She writes:

  There tends to be construction on the right side of Vanowen just before Colfax at that time in the morning, so while I know it seems counterintuitive, you’ll actually want to take not Oxnard Boulevard over or even Magnolia or Victory but BURBANK.

  I am a person who believes that in Los Angeles, people’s innermost personalities, their philosophies even, are revealed in the driving routes they choose, the trails of bread crumbs they make as they weave their way through the city. And Burbank is such a bold, muscular choice! It is true I myself am more of a “resign myself to Victory” or even “consign myself to the ill winds of Victory” sort of driver. Yes, Victory Boulevard is butt-ugly and usually clogged, but so are the other east/west boulevards of The Nuys, in mysterious traffic patterns I’m not clever enough to divine, so I always simply commit to Victory and consider watching my life slowly seep away under the Jack in a Box signs part of my daily Zen practice.

  But in Mike I see a bit of Brenda. He also believes in the bold, muscular choice of shooting all the way down to Burbank. Mike believes in Burbank so much he would take it straight to the sea if he could.

  And thank God I have Brenda, because without her epistle on traffic, I may well have never been able to find the school. She continues:

  Luther Hall is a school you’ve probably driven by a lot but have never noticed before. Heading toward North Hollywood, it’s up Laurel Canyon below Victory on the same side as the 170 Freeway and Coldwater.

  But here’s the trick. When you make that l
eft-hand turn, the first landmark you’ll see to your right is El Pollo Loco (just beyond the Jiffy Lube, Target is beyond that) and you’ll feel like you want to turn there

  BUT DON’T!

  If you don’t quite complete that turn but continue on straight, into what first looks like an alley, it will zig left zig right…

  Then catty-corner from the chapel you’ll see a low brick wall covered in ivy. Drive toward the guardhouse with the little coat of arms (sword and flame, indicates the eternal search for truth) and park. Gate arm should be open. I like parking way off to the right in slots numbered 110 and up because the shade is best between nine and eleven in the morning, which is during the time of our tour.

  In addition to a School Fairy, it is clear that Brenda is also a Directions Fairy! With Kaitlin as my Medical Fairy, all I need is a Travel Fairy. Which I bet Brenda could be as well (“Instead of using Hotels.com, cut and paste into your browser: 12312312$@@!$travelseats.org. You’ll want to click on ‘Menu A’ BUT DON’T—!”)

  The directions totally play out, of course. As Brenda indicated, I COMPLETELY felt the urge—almost an overwhelming urge, like a bowel movement—to turn at the El Pollo Loco, but I stick with her zigzagging alley, and there it appears, almost as if in a dream…the guardhouse with the little coat of arms. I like this place, Luther Hall—I like its modesty, its caution, its tidiness, its quasi-hiddenness, and yet its ready accessibility (there’s no guard in the guardhouse, the gate arm is indeed wide open). Its daffodil-yellow buildings are plain but clean, with many cheerful windows festooned with children’s artwork. I pull toward the far, far right of the parking lot, where, indeed, are clearly marked numbers 110 and up…

  Into one of the most leafy, cool, delightful parking slots I’ve ever enjoyed! It is a hot pocket, a saucy little oasis of excellent parking, tucked away, counterintuitive.

  Brenda is waiting for me in front of her Chevy Tahoe, in slot number 111. She greets me with a large fresh Starbucks, which she lifts neatly up for me out of a tray. She has sagely pre-milked the coffee and arranged, in the center of the tray, a tidy fan of straight sugar, raw sugar, brown sugar, Equal, and Splenda. And…

  “I like THIS,” she murmurs, removing from her purse and splitting open a little Ziploc bag, which actually has, if you can believe it, a mini-shaker…of hazelnut powder.

  I don’t typically seek out hazelnut powder, but Brenda makes it all seem so easy, like falling into a bed that has already been turned down for you, and I’m still high from the excellent directions. (There was an interesting southward jog Brenda made me do on Fulton.)

  So I say “Okay.”

  “All righty, then.”

  Brenda gives me a shake, a stir, I sip and I find…

  I like it!

  “Hazelnut powder!” I gurgle. “Who knew?”

  “Hm!” she says, then all business: “Let’s go.”

  The front offices of Luther Hall are laid out in a pleasant U. There are flowers, there are trophies, there are framed photos of neat lines of children in sports uniforms, there is typing.

  Overall, a first impression is: gold, and navy blue.

  “This is Doris Anderson, head of admissions—she’s with our church,” Brenda says.

  A plump, white-haired woman with gold button earrings and an argyle cardigan behind the front desk waves (in my mind, she is “Mrs. Claus”).

  “Here’s Hannah’s application packet,” Brenda says. “Just fill out the top section, leave the rest.” I gratefully receive it. “Where it says ‘Early Admit,’ check yes.” I do. “Here is a Luther Hall tote bag you can put it all into.” It’s navy blue, gold straps, canvas. “Oh, and here, as a souvenir bookmark…a Blue Ribbon—”

  “The Blue Ribbon,” Doris Anderson says. “Yes. You’ve heard about our Blue Ribbon. Everyone’s talking about our Blue Ribbon.”

  “But for September, there are openings still?” asks a sloe-eyed brunette to my left. She is very thin, intense, long brown hair, in pale green Gunne Sax–style shift. Her accent is…? French, it must be French.

  “At this moment there are still plenty of spots open for Kinder—K—and Developmental Kinder—DK,” says Doris. “However, we JUST heard the exciting news that Luther Hall has been designated, by California, as a California Blue Ribbon school—”

  There is a portentous pause. We all murmur our approbation.

  “And when that status is announced officially next week?” Doris continues. “All bets will be off. Already I’m getting calls. But we can’t open any more spots in kindergarten. We are maxed out. Just this morning I started a waiting list—”

  Gunne Sax is vibrating: “But we were told—!”

  “Yes.” Doris brings two hands forward, palms in, as though framing a small perfect gate. “All you families today who leave a check and an application will be guaranteed a kindergarten spot for September. No question. This is our last guaranteed-admission tour. You’re lucky. You made it in right under the wire.”

  There are palpable exclamations of relief among the dozen or so parents gathered…And then a new surge of companionable relaxation, of sideways charming looks, of shy dimpling smiles. We made it! We’ve gotten in on a hot stock right before it doubled. We’ve landed the sensible brunette just before her makeover as a platinum blonde.

  It is the complete opposite scenario of last week, of Valley Co-Op’s sweaty, frantic, Dr. Zhivago–like panic. No, we are the lucky new family of Luther Hall parents. Instead of a frenzied Siberian train, we are pushing off together, festively, on a kind of laconically wending, Mosel River…party boat.

  “Is your accent…French?” I ask Gunne Sax. “If you don’t mind me asking. I hope it doesn’t seem too rude.”

  She looks at me for a moment in surprise, then says, “Yes, we just moved here six months ago from Paris!”

  “Well, welcome to Los Angeles!” I say. “This is my friend Brenda.” Brenda gives a terse wave, her gaze already going reflective, and distant—thinking about a cigarette, I presume. “Her son is Cal, my daughter is Hannah…”

  “Hannah?” asks a sandy-haired blonde in pince-nez glasses, standing next to Gunne Sax. Also with an accent.

  “Actually, it’s short for Hannelore. Although you can’t tell by looking at me, my mother was German. From Danzig! My dad is Chinese, from Shanghai.”

  “Ah!” Both women blossom. Pince-Nez puts out her hand and says, “My name is Ilga. I am Swiss!”

  “This is a lovely school, isn’t it?” I exclaim as Doris leads us down the hall, toward the playground.

  “Of the schools we’ve toured so far, we like it very much,” says Gunne Sax. “Very cheerful. Very bright. It looks very safe.”

  “Not too stuffy,” says Pince-Nez.

  “How many schools have you toured?” I ask.

  “Eleven,” says Gunne Sax, with precision.

  “Wow!” I exclaim. “What part of town do you live in?”

  “Studio City,” they reply at the same time, dolorous.

  “Studio City!” I erupt. “Those schools down near the boulevard are supposed to be great!”

  “Public school—no,” Gunne Sax says firmly, a bit sadly. And thinking of the wild confusion, and the magnets, and the gerrymandering, (and then what about middle school? Ike Turner!), I can relate.

  “I guess things are much simpler in Europe,” I say.

  “NO!” they exclaim in unison.

  “It is the same situation as here,” admits Pince-Nez. “You cannot send your children to public school in Europe anymore, either. My sister just moved out of Berlin. She had to move out of the city, actually.”

  “Berlin!” Gunne Sax shakes her head.

  “Berlin?” I ask.

  She murmurs something.

  “What?” I say.

  She repeats it.

  It sounds like “Terken.” Terken?

  “The playground!” Doris exclaims, before a sweep of running, shouting children, verdant lawn, and a covered play area, with blue and y
ellow structures built in the form of child-sized rowboats and sailboats. “We just replaced all our concrete with this new rubberized surface, which, as you can see, the children just love—”

  And now a bell rings. Teachers call out to their squads, begin herding, arranging. Children shuffle by in formations pleasing as flocks of birds in their white shirts and blue pants. “Luther Hall has a dress code, as you can see,” Doris points out, “but it’s fairly relaxed.” And I like that, structure without rigor, like a guardhouse without a guard.

  We follow one flock of children into their daffodil-yellow kindergarten classroom. Without much prompting, the kindergarteners wiggle down into their desks, pull out individual boxes, and seem to know to immediately busy themselves with cutting out little teddy bears, and pasting them onto different numbers.

  “As you can see,” Doris notes, “our kindergarten curriculum utilizes a full range of small motor skills.”

  “How many hours is kindergarten?” asks Gunne Sax.

  “Six,” Dories replies, with a kind of light regret that is then again NOT regret. “From nine to three.”

  “Whoof!” the parents exclaim, at once horrified and then…delighted.

  “Kindergarten at Luther Hall IS a long day,” Doris notes. “And it IS quite academic. That’s one of the reasons we got the Blue Ribbon.”

  I must say, I love the academic, I love the Blue Ribbon, I love the fresh rubberized playground I feel I myself could do jumping jacks off of. I like the constant bustle, the clicking of typewriters, the cutting-up of bears. In the far corner, I see a heavy bespectacled woman Windexing a globe.

  Lutherans…takin’ care of business!

  Windexing the globe!

  “Is Wednesday chapel REQUIRED?” a white-lion-hair-maned dad asks.

  “It is NOT required,” Doris answers. “Although the children do enjoy it…”