I'll post in a couple days, really. I've been sort-of basking in the beauty that is "back to school." My kids' school has staggered starting days, and things worked out in such a way that Mighty B. had school yesterday, but Precious Daughter was home.
Today is the opposite. Mighty B. is off.
As I led Precious Daughter to her line, I felt like I was leading her down the Green Mile. The poor kid stopped at the statue of the Blessed Mother, said a prayer, and started to cry. Ogre that I am, I had to tell her to get a hold of herself. I didn't want to start the day with a meltdown like last year. There is nothing that tears me apart more than a child crying not to leave his/her parents.
My kids' school has the lousiest first-day-back practice in the world, I swear. Once they hit second grade (this year for Precious Daughter), the kids don't know who their teacher is until they're in school on the first day. The entire grade files into the school as a group, and each teacher calls the roll for their class.
I don't understand the logic of this practice. My gut feeling is that there must be some highly-complained-about teachers in this school, and the administration feels that this surprise beginning will minimize the number of parental complaints about classroom assignment.
I have been feverishly praying all day that my daughter gets the teacher she's wishing for. I'll find out in another twenty minutes when she gets off the bus. My stomach is in knots, because this will dictate the tone of the entire school year.
She was intimidated by her teacher last year, and she spent a good portion of it worrying about doing things right and not getting "yelled at." Precious Daughter is already a worrier. It will be a miracle if she doesn't have ulcers by the time she's ten.
** ** ** ** UPDATE ** ** ** **
After a scary computer crash on the job, The Oracle pulled my ass out of the fire and managed to get me up and running. At least so far.
Wouldn't you know, Precious Daughter not only did not get the teacher she wished for, but the teacher considered (by the parking-lot-mommy grapevine) to be a troll. Why my kid? Why my good, smart kid? If the rumors are true (waiting for the 2nd grade back-to-school night to meet her), and my child is saddled with another difficult teacher, I am going to scream.
The good news is that Precious Daughter reported she liked her new teacher. In the next breath she told me she needs four tennis balls.
Tennis balls? What for?
This teacher wants to use them to cover the chair feet. She seems to not like the scraping and clattering of twenty-odd chairs being moved at the same time. WTF? Teach the kids how to properly slide a chair. It's a useful life skill. In fact, I distinctly recall the nuns teaching us how to silently raise and lower the kneelers in church. Why should I go out and buy tennis balls? Oh, and it's four tennis balls. Aren't they usually packed in threes?
The spiteful bitch in me wants to go to Petco and buy four doggie tennis balls in different colors: Purple, hot pink, dark green, and blue. She can look across the floor and have those four clashing colors taint her little sea of neon yellow-green.
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