by Jane Porter
I shrug helplessly. “I thought she was doing better.”
Dad looks at me sideways. “It doesn’t get better, Marta. It only gets worse.”
We walk in silence the rest of the way to the car.
I find Taylor’s e-mail waiting when Eva and I get home. I’m sitting on the couch with Eva, using my laptop to check my in-box even though I’d vowed not to do e-mail on my laptop anymore.
But the always rushing out to my studio is proving to be a big pain, and I’d rather sit with Eva on the sofa anyway.
Taylor has sent a mass e-mail to her committee, advising us that there will be a room parent meeting at the school one day next week, once she confirms the time and place with the school. In the meantime, she’s working on preparing “informational packets” for all the parents working with her, packets she’ll distribute at the first meeting next week that will explain our goals and job descriptions.
I scan the job descriptions just to see how bad it’s going to be.
Class Auction Chair
Room Party Coordinator
Field Trip Coordinator
Yearbook Liaison
And the list goes on.
Is this for real? Whatever happened to just a normal fourth-grade experience?
I’m still reading Taylor’s e-mail when Eva leans across me to see what’s on my computer screen.
“Why did Jemma’s mom e-mail you?” Eva demands, catching a glimpse of Taylor Young’s name.
She scans the e-mail before I answer and then straightens to look at me with a mixture of awe and concern. “You’re really the first assistant head room mom?”
The way she makes it sound, I could either be her savior or a catalyst for catastrophe.
I’m silently thinking catastrophe, and I’d wager so is she. “Yeah. What do you think?”
“I don’t know. That’s a pretty big step.”
Her confidence underwhelms me. “It can’t be that hard, can it?”
“Noooo.” But she doesn’t sound convinced. “But on the positive side, you’ll get to spend lots of time with Mrs. Young. You’ll probably be seeing her a couple times a week.”
That’s so not cool.
“And maybe she’ll be able to help you,” Eva adds more brightly, moving back to her spot on the couch to resume watching her show. She gives me a big cheery smile. “Maybe she’ll be able to teach you all the mom stuff you need to know.”
Sunday afternoon, Eva and I hit the bookstore as promised, and while Eva shops, I select a handful of CDs. She already has her purchases paid for and bagged when I emerge from the music section. “Ready to go?” she asks.
I pick up an iced coffee from the adjacent Starbucks, Eva gets a Raspberry Tango, and we head home, where we’re doing something boring for dinner like meat loaf. It’s easy and fast, and I can work in the studio while the meat loaf’s in the oven.
As I work I hear the house line ring, but I ignore it, just as I always do. The ringing ends abruptly, and I fear Eva’s answered it. I’m right. She appears in the studio a minute later, holding the phone against her chest.
“It’s Mrs. Young,” she whispers excitedly. “Jemma’s mom.”
I save up my work on the computer and take the phone. “Hello.”
“Hi, Marta. This is Taylor Young, and I’m calling to schedule our first room parent meeting for sometime this week. Thursday’s Back-to-School Night so we need to find another evening that works.”
“That sounds great,” I answer. “Let me just get my calendar.”
Eva’s two steps ahead of me. She’s already grabbing my BlackBerry from where it’s charging on my desk and hands it to me.
I tap on my calendar icon for the coming week, and it’s more booked than I expected with the Freedom Bike Group dinner on Tuesday night and Back-to-School Night on Thursday.
“I’m free Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evening,” I tell Taylor. “I’m wide open on those days.”
“Oh dear,” Taylor says with a sigh. “That’s not good at all. You’re sure Tuesday’s bad?”
“Very sure. You can’t do Monday or Wednesday?”
“No. And, it’s not just me,” she answers. “It’s everybody. After polling the other moms, Tuesday night seemed to be the best night, so it’s what we decided on.”
I find myself mentally counting the number of times Taylor uses everybody, others, we.
Who is this “we,” and when did they decide? “I don’t understand. I thought I was the first assistant head room mom—”
“Oh, well, yes, but I didn’t want to bother you until we had some sort of consensus, and since Tuesday night was the best night, we’re going to go with that.”
“Am I the last one you called?”
“Yes, but it’s just because I’ve worked with the others before, and since they’re married I thought it only fair to check with them first.”
“That’s fair how?” I ask quietly, thinly.
“Well, uh, they have husbands.”
“Right.”
“And nearly everyone has got to check in with their husband.”
“Is that a big deal?”
“Well, um, yes, it can be.” She’s beginning to backpedal.
“And why is that?”
“It’s just more work. They’ve got to make sure someone can cover kids, coordinate schedules, things of that nature.”
I can tell Taylor’s scrambling, but I feel no mercy. In the meantime, Eva is giving me incredulous looks, as though I’m an NFL player and have just thrown the Super Bowl.
Taylor clears her throat. “I’m sorry you won’t be able to make it—”
“Where is it?”
“The school library.”
“What time?”
“Uh, seven.”
“Thank you.” And looking down into Eva’s pleading face, I add as sweetly as I can, “Have a nice night, Taylor.”
I hang up.
Now I know where I stand. I’m evidently the C team.
I don’t think there’s a chance in hell I’ll be able to make the room parent meeting, but at the last minute Frank calls and says a group of the executive team can’t fly out because of a problem on the East Coast and the meetings in Seattle have been rescheduled for the following week.
I’m disappointed not to meet the Freedom Bike Group for another week but very glad I’ll be able to make the room parent meeting.
Dad and Mom come for dinner Tuesday night and have agreed to stay with Eva while I slip out to the meeting.
I shouldn’t be late to the meeting, but a phone call from Tiana has me laughing hysterically instead of getting out the door.
After ten minutes, though, I beg off, promise Tiana I’ll call her in the morning, and race toward my truck.
By the time I drive to school, find parking, and make my way into the library, Taylor’s leaning against the librarian’s desk, talking. The parent meeting has already begun.
Quietly, I shut the door behind me so as not to disturb the others. Taylor’s looking quite sharp tonight, very much the professional mother in her brown trousers with a subtle gold-and-green plaid, a white blouse, three strings of fat cream pearls, and brown crocodile pumps.
I slip into the nearest empty orange chair as Taylor’s narrowed gaze sweeps over the parents approvingly. “I’m really excited about this new school year. We’ve got the best group of parents, absolutely the best, and we’re going to be the best class, too.”
Taylor reaches for a leather binder. She’s made each of us, her room parents, a binder, too, and filled it with everything we could need to know. It has four plastic dividers with the tabs already marked and placed inside. Calendar. Contacts. Parties & Field Trips. And last, Class Project. And in each of the four sections are handouts, schedules, forms, information sheets, and helpful how-to-do directions and then how-to lists.
The information is so detailed, and the to-do lists so cute with cartoon graphics and liberal use of fun color fonts, that I feel as if I’m i
n high school on the student council or maybe it’s the first day of cheerleading camp. Either way, it’s so BUBBLY and UP that I feel even more uncomfortable.
High school was anything but the best time of my life. I did well in school, although my grades suffered because of my numerous unexcused absences and tardies.
My high school years are mostly a blur, but two things stand out: (a) I didn’t fit in; and (b) I lost my virginity at the junior-senior prom.
I was only a sophomore the year I attended the junior-senior prom. My date was a senior, and I’d just turned sixteen. He wanted to get laid. It was his senior prom, after all, and I was too stupid to tell him no. The sex was forgettable (it hurt more than I expected), and worst of all was the indignity of spending the rest of the evening in a stiff formal gown feeling wet.
I didn’t expect to feel so wet the rest of the night. No one ever talked about that. And I never went to another prom. Proms were stupid fake parties full of drunk, overdressed kids wearing the oddest flowers a florist could sell a seventeen-year-old.
Or put it another way—it wasn’t me.
As most of adolescent life wasn’t me.
Taylor continues to move the meeting along at a nice, crisp pace. She’s obviously done this before. Her points are precise. Her tone is friendly and yet firm. I’m in Taylor Young’s favorite domain.
“It’s our job to make the school more efficient. It’s our job to free up Mrs. Shipley’s time so she can concentrate on teaching and not all the extras.” Taylor’s impassioned words generate a nod of agreement among the gathered women.
“We have to do everything we can to support Mrs. Shipley, and the best way we can do that is by taking a one- or two-hour block each week to assist in the classroom,” she continues. “If you can come in twice a week, or even every day for a couple hours, fantastic. The more help Mrs. Shipley gets, the better job she’ll do with our kids.”
I’m trying not to let my jaw drop. Every parent here volunteer in the classroom two hours every week? With seven parents here, that’s a minimum of fourteen hours a week. That’s nearly three hours of volunteer help a day. And what would we be doing during those hours? This is fourth grade, not kindergarten.
Taylor presses on. “I’ve put together the schedule and will send it around with the volunteer sheet on a clipboard. Pick your preferred slot before we open it to the rest of the moms. Or if you have an area of expertise, let us know now so we can get you assigned to the right activity. We need moms to make copies, moms to grade, moms to sort papers, moms to record the grades, moms to work on bulletin boards, moms to read with kids who need a little extra help . . .” And at this last part, Taylor’s voice drops. “Again, if you can do more, I strongly encourage you to volunteer for a couple time slots. There can never be too much help.”
I wait for someone, anyone, to raise her hand and protest.
Someone here, someone besides me, has to wonder if a teacher—a highly trained teacher who once taught at the high school level—really needs this much parental assistance (read “interference”). But no one does. Instead, every maternal head is nodding, intent on her mission of making sure her child has the very best school experience possible.
Even if it means Mom’s back in school full-time.
Knowing I’m about to be the lone voice of dissension, I slowly raise my hand. Taylor sees me and calls on me: “Yes, Marta.”
I smile at her to show her I know she’s the quarterback on the A team and I’m a third stringer on the bench, but theoretically we’re on the same big team. “From what I’ve heard, Mrs. Shipley is an extraordinary teacher, and I’m wondering if this might be too much help.”
Taylor’s dazzling white smile freezes. She cocks her head ever so slightly, eyebrows lifting as if she doesn’t understand the question. But she does. I can tell from the creasing at the edges of her brown eyes and the very unsmiling expression in those eyes that she knows exactly what I’m saying. And from Taylor’s taut, terse smile, she’s letting me know that we’re most definitely not on the same team. “Marta, you’re new here—”
“I’ve been here a year and a half.”
“And you’re still learning how things work here, and maybe in New Jersey—”
“New York.”
“Maybe there moms didn’t help out very much, but we do here. We’re committed to making sure our children have the best education possible.”
“I agree, completely. I just thought our efforts were supposed to be more . . . behind the scenes.”
“There are twenty-three students in the class. And only one teacher and one part-time aide. How can a teacher realistically teach all twenty-three kids without more help? There’s only one of her. And nearly two dozen students.”
Thank God she did the math for me. I wouldn’t have been able to figure out that challenging teacher-to-student ratio on my own.
“Right,” I continue. “But what about those of us who work? How can we be in the classroom two hours a week, every week?”
My question’s greeted by absolute silence. Am I the only one here who works? Do none of them have jobs outside the house? Does no one else need to contribute to the paycheck?
Taylor’s face rearranges itself, her power smile returning. “Most of us have made the decision to stay home and be full-time mothers. We find that it’s so much better for the kids having Mom there every day.”
My mom didn’t work while I was growing up, and I’ve got to tell you that it didn’t make me a smarter or a better person. Did having Mom there every afternoon make me more secure? Possibly. But not having Mom there wouldn’t have made me more insecure.
And thinking back, way back, when I was growing up, my mom did volunteer, and she did pitch in with parties and chaperone field trips, but she didn’t spend two-plus hours at school every week. In fact, no mom did. They’d come in periodically for a project like a bake sale or the greeting card and candy bar fund-raiser, but they didn’t live in the back (or front) of the classroom.
I’m not sure why it bugs me so much to think that moms are there all the time, but it does. We’re supposed to help our kids learn to let go, but if we don’t let go, how will they?
Isn’t school a time for children to learn responsibility and self-reliance?
Taylor hands the clipboard to the woman to her right. “When the sign-up sheet comes to you, just put down whatever you think you can do. And don’t worry, Marta,” she says, shooting me a smile that whispers of condescension, “I’m sure between all the moms here, we can cover for you.”
Chapter Ten
After that wonderful parent kickoff meeting, I’m not particularly anxious for Back-to-School Night. Taylor will be there again, and I don’t like having to be away from Eva for a second night in one week.
Happily, Allie agrees to stay with Eva for tonight’s Back-to-School Night so I can go and learn about the wonderful year Eva’s going to have and how we’re helping the Bellevue School Foundation help us. Which is a nice way of saying that they’re going to be asking for more money from us very soon.
I’ve never felt comfortable at Points Elementary parent events, and that surprised me when we moved here, because I always enjoyed the parent nights at Eva’s school in New York. Maybe it’s because here in Bellevue I feel like the odd mom out—not just a single parent, but a woman who hasn’t yet made any friends.
I definitely need some friends.
Speaking of friends, I never called Tiana back. I completely spaced. Dammit.
Eva helped me get ready for Back-to-School Night, making a few too many suggestions re wardrobe and hair.
Not that shirt, Mom.
No, not that one, either. It’s ugly.
You can’t wear those pants, they make you look fat.
Wear something nice, Mom, the other moms always do.
In the end, I leave the house wearing what Eva thinks is appropriate for a parent education night: black shirt and black slacks with a beige-khaki car coat. I’m wearing
heeled black boots, and my long hair is combed straight but otherwise loose. In my opinion, I look as if I’m going on a dinner date, but Eva’s happy. She seems to feel I finally represent her properly.
I give my little social climber daughter a hug good-bye and head out the door.
Tonight I’m not late, but by the time I reach the school, the parking lot is overflowing and I’m forced to park on one of the residential side streets flanking Points Elementary.
The gym is brightly lit and buzzing with conversation and laughter. The rows of folding chairs are nearly all full, with lots of Asian and Indian families in the middle and back rows, families lured by Microsoft to add to their technical workforce, while the front rows have been taken by the eager-beaver parents who got here early.
I find one of the last open seats on the side near the wall toward the back of the gym. As I sit down, I adjust my coat, put my purse at my feet, and cross my legs to appear properly busy.
It’s a rowdy crowd, conversation punctured by raucous laughter, and as I sit in my chair, my hands folded neatly in my lap, I feel something I’m starting to feel more often.
I’m lonely. Not wildly, miserably lonely, but the whisper of lonely, the lonely that makes me think I need to get out more, I need to network and socialize, I need to maybe have people in for dinner or a movie or something.
Maybe this is what Eva’s been feeling. Maybe this is the emptiness that’s been bothering her. Our lives are a little too quiet here in Seattle. Our world is a little too routine, and this wasn’t how we lived in New York. Our lives in TriBeCa were colorful and unpredictable. Friends dropped by all the time. Shey would call and invite us over. We ate out frequently, Greek food one night, Cuban another, the Jewish deli at least once during the week.
Now I’m meat loaf and potatoes.
How sad is that?
Again I think of Tiana and Shey, and I don’t want to replace them. But maybe I can’t continue being such a lone wolf. Maybe I do need to make friends here, friends who are adults and have perspective, friends who can listen and give suggestions, friends who’ll laugh and celebrate the successes and, on the bad days, offer a hug and a glass of wine.
