First day photos

I don't care that my children are off to college. I insist on a "first day of school" picture. I've taken one most every year of their school careers. This year as the first day approached, I sent texts and SnapChats reminding them of their obligation to their mother.

Darcy started first, and I got the picture early in the morning as she headed off to class. After spending the summer at home, she is still in the mode of pleasing her parents, and she understands the benefits of keeping her parents happy.

Madison started the next day, and I did not receive a photo. Apparently, she sent it via SnapChat sometime during the day. She did this despite my reminder that I needed a picture texted to me from the CAMERA and not SnapChat. This is what a summer away from her parents has done--no need to please.

My friend and I rolled our eyes at the picture. What kind of a "first day of school" photo is this? With her headphones? Luckily, she must have thought that same thing because there was another picture behind that one.

Uh, yeah, not the best, and obviously taken some time after the first. Like, AFTER school had started. I texted this very thing, complaining I hadn't received her picture. She sent me to SnapChat where I had to take a photo of her photo to keep it for posterity. Then I mentioned the above.

Madison: "Here you go."

Me: "Much better. Thank you. But technically, you already had class."

Madison: "Listen. I have taken pictures after class most of my college."

Come Christmas, this child will be doing some BIG make-up on pleasing the parents--like daily.

May their year be filled with studying, laughter, learning, friendship, and happiness. Oh, and good food.

College year 2

Summer as I know it is over. Just like that, the kids start school--Darcy tomorrow and Madison Tuesday. Crazy how fast the days fly by now that the kids are older. Remember when we use to count their ages by months? Writing down every milestone and then checking to make sure they weren't behind? Sigh.

Darcy worked until her very last day of summer. Then she spent three days traveling back and forth from college for job training. That meant that it was up to Mom to haul out the belongings from the nooks and crannies where I stashed everything in May and up to Dad to load the van. Darcy packed the rest in the late evenings after training, and we set off on Thursday morning in two cars packed to the ceiling.

Tom: "You really don't need all this stuff. I mean, your room is probably going to be small."
Darcy: "This isn't even all I'm going to need. We still have to go shopping when we get there."
Tom: "I don't know what for. This is plenty of stuff."

Initially, he wasn't going to accompany us on this trip, but Darcy wanted him, so she guilted him to take a day off. I think at times she regretted that decision--mainly when it came to shopping.

This year Darcy is in the dorm for students in deaf studies. This dorm was one of the reasons she chose this school out of the other Florida schools. As of her move-in day, she didn't have a roommate, so moving was easier without another crew of people.

It went much smoother than last year. Darcy had scoped out the dorm during her three days of training and knew the back way to bypass the road closures and move-in day crowds. We parked in a lot behind her dorm, and we were there early enough to have three college helpers with a cart. While Darcy and I went off to retrieve her keys, Tom and the kids loaded up the first cart and were alone on the elevator.

It took two cartfuls from our van and one from Darcy's car. Three trips. We were unloaded and working on the room before the first hour of being there—a far cry from last year's debacle. Darcy and I immediately got to work unpacking and hanging her clothes. We lofted her bed and arranged and then rearranged her side of the room. We made lists as we did for our shopping trip. We discovered that her outlets weren't working, so Darcy got her RA, who had a maintenance man in our room within fifteen minutes. Whoa! Last year it took three days for the maintenance guy to show up to lock the door!

Darcy was the only one moving in on her floor that day. It was eerily quiet. Even the television was on mute with a closed caption or people talking in sign language. We were pretty much moved in and ready to shop by one o'clock. We spent a leisurely lunch and then hit Walmart, where we filled the cart until it was overflowing.

Tom: "This is ridiculous. Why do you need all this shampoo? All these bottles? What is all of this stuff? How much laundry are you planning on doing? It only takes a little bit of detergent to wash nowadays."

We ignored him as much as we could, but we had to suffer when it came to buying the microwave. The man insisted on lifting each one in the aisle as if Darcy were going to be doing the same each time she heated something. Then he read everything on each box as if by doing so would tell him the best one. We spent longer in this aisle then we did in the entire store. Eventually, Darcy and I wandered off to pick up dishes and flatware. He joined us after making his decision based on...ready for it...color.

Tom: "You're buying forks? Why are you buying forks? We have a million forks at home. You can get those on your next trip home. Don't buy forks. Are you buying spoons? Why would you do that? You don't have a lot of room, you know."

We fed her, kissed her, and said our goodbyes. Cheers to another great year!

From the purge - what is a thing-a-ma-bob?

In seventh grade English class, we were given the assignment of writing a paragraph answering the question, "What is a thing-a-ma-bob," and we were to draw a picture of it. I don't remember why this was a topic. I only remember coming home and telling my mother the assignment. 

She thought it was stupid. My mother, who was once an English and P.E. teacher, very rarely agreed with us that school assignments were ridiculous, but this one annoyed her. While I was busy writing my paper, she too wrote an essay.

She was very proud of her paper and wanted me to turn it in with my own writing. I refused. 

She told me to do it. 

I argued. 

She pushed. 

I cried. 

She got mad, and as always where my mother was concerned, I caved. I took the paper to school, my stomach churning, and wondered how I would get it to the teacher without her noticing. It turned out much easier than expected. 

The teacher, whose name I do remember, but will refer to her as Mrs. Y, had us read our paper aloud at the front of the room, so I put my mother's essay behind mine so that after I was done reading mine, I laid them both down in the pile. Relieved, home free, I returned to my seat the task accomplished. Unfortunately, it didn't end there.

We had also had to draw a picture, and suddenly Mrs. Y remembered that we had not shown those. Back she went through the papers, reading our names and holding up the pictures. 

When she came to my mother's paper, the name read, "Anonymous." My mother had wanted to put, "What's her name," but vetoed that on the final draft. Mrs. Y asked whose paper this belonged to, and when no one responded, she went nuts. 

She was so mad. She kept reading the paper silently, then threatened the author with all sorts of punishment for using "inappropriate words." I was horrified. I could not come clean in front of the class because I was embarrassed, and the woman was furious. She finally moved on but said that if the author didn't fess up by the end of the school day, he or she would face expulsion. I was scared to death.

I was a shy kid back in the day, and very quiet in school unless around my friends. This whole incident had me so worried I'm lucky I didn't vomit in class. When English ended, I waited for the room to clear out, gathering my belongings slowly, and went up to Mrs. Y. 

I started crying and told her my mother had written the paper, that she was an English teacher and that my mother had thought the assignment funny, and that she made me turn it in as a joke. 

The poor woman had no idea what to do. Now that I'm an adult and have spent time teaching in a classroom as a substitute teacher, I can feel for her, but back then, she was not a favorite. I was shaking and sobbing, and she stood there, probably thinking in her head, "What the hell kind of a mother is this kid's parent?" Outwardly, she gave a fake laugh and told me it was a fine paper.

That should have been the end of things, but that night happened to be our Open House. Of course, my mother was pissed at the teacher's response to her paper. She made my dad go into the classroom, walk up to the teacher, and introduce himself as "Anonymous' husband." 

In Mrs. Y's defense, she did laugh. She laughed and laughed, and when my mother entered the room, she told my mom how much she had enjoyed the paper, and the next day when the document was returned to me, she had written, "I must say, this is most imaginative and descriptive. The vocabulary is "out of this world!" I think this was a clever idea!" 

The vocabulary was all made up, but honestly, what was Mrs. Y suppose to do?

I do have to say that after the incident, Mrs. Y treated me better than she had ever treated me before. A few years later, my mother ran into her at the grocery where she had her newborn baby with her, and when my mother peeked into the stroller, she told Mrs. Y, "She looks just like E.T." 

Thank god I had graduated by that time! (Oh, and I apparently did not keep my own written paragraph on a thing-a-ma-bob)

Here then, is Anonymous' English 7-1 paper written on my birthday in November 1976.

A Thing-a-Ma-Bob

A "thing-a-ma-bob" is a very important part of a wha-cha-ma-call-it. Without it, the stabisat on your framminger will not lucrete. What's-his-name- told me about the time his "thing-a-ma-bob misfractionated and shoofited his do-hikey, leftending him with a prolooped asprite. Mestron accondrys deponate on a "thing-a-ma-bob" a lot. - © C.Mason 1976