For the past 13 years, my children have reacted to the beginning of the school year the same way – by lying prostrate on the floor and sobbing.
Although a small and cruel part of me can’t help but see the humor in their anguish, as a mother I feel obligated to show sympathy. This year I prepared for the first day of school like any other. I put out boxes of Kleenex, placed smiley-face stickers on their Pop-Tarts, and tucked little notes inside their lunch boxes that said “Mommy loves!”
I was in the middle of taking a deep breath to brace myself for the onslaught of sadness when the first child walked around the corner. His hair was combed, he was smiling and he looked like a morning person on his second cup of coffee.
“What’s with you?” I asked as I eyed him suspiciously.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I responded. I was curious as to why he looked so fresh and crisp instead of depressed. But I knew better than to tempt the gods of fate.
Before long, the second child appeared around the corner looking like a back-to-school commercial. His clothes were groomed, his shoes were tied, and his backpack hung neatly from his shoulders. He appeared as though we were heading out for ice cream.
Well, color me perplexed. After all, who has happy kids on the first day of school?
I was prepared to see them in tears, anger and working on the seven steps of acceptance. I expected bargaining, despondency and heartfelt anguish. I certainly wasn’t prepared for kids who seemed to have stepped out of a school-loving reality show.
“Good morning, my dear mother,” said a third child as he whistled his way into the room. He was quickly followed by his older brother, who seemed nothing but confident that this first day of school would be the first day of the rest of his life.
“What’s with you people?” I asked.
“Nothing,” they replied in unison. Then the youngest said mechanically, “But we’d best get a move on. We don’t want to be late.”
Well, if that didn’t beat all. No crying, no sobbing – just a group of kids who had suddenly taken a turn for the better.
I couldn’t help but wonder if they had been taken over by aliens, replaced by robots or turned into a twisted Hollywood version of “The Stepford Kids.”
Several days passed without change. They made their beds, cleared their plates, and I couldn’t help but be a little freaked out when I noticed them doing their homework without so much as an admonition. They were polite, they were refined, and they were downright courteous.
Although I was suspicious, I decided not to question my good fortune. “Perhaps we’ve rounded a corner,” I said to my husband over coffee. I was beginning to believe that all of our good parenting had paid off. In fact, I was considering writing a “how to” handbook for parents who struggle.
For the first time in 18 years, I took my finger off the panic button and threw caution to the wind. I took the kids to restaurants, super centers and proudly marched them into my parents’ home.
Not only did I take my own children out and about, I added in the offspring of others. Thinking that I was invincible and possessed supernatural powers that enabled me to control children and adolescents alike, I stocked up on juveniles like they were going off the market.
Then last Friday I went to the drive-up at the bank.
“How are your boys doing in school?” asked the nice lady as she sent out a full variety of lollipops to my collection of kids.
“Oh,” I bragged like the fool I was, “we are on top of our game. The boys are doing their homework, getting up early, and are cultivated and respectful.”
No sooner had I opened my big mouth than the gates of hell broke lose. One child had opted for the watermelon sucker while another beat the tar out of his sibling for the raspberry razzle. Two other kids were fighting over the lemon while another had a hankering for cherry and was willing to start a mutiny.
With pokes and jabs, they removed their seat belts and jumped to the middle of the Suburban in an all-out brawl. All of a sudden, my peaceful existence was reminiscent of a bar fight in the middle of the Wildhorse Saloon.
I’m still considering that handbook. I believe I shall call it “Parenting: Don’t Ever Think That You’ve Got It Licked.”
It has a punch to it, don’tcha think?
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her at www.loriclinch.com.