Here I am, sitting on a chair designed for a two-year-old, too shy to speak to anyone, while my daughter plays with the kitchenette. She hands me a fake cupcake. I wish it were a Xanax. It is orientation day at my daughter’s new school, and it seems that it is mine too. It has been almost twenty years since I last set foot in a classroom. The chairs might have gotten a tad smaller, but my feelings about first days have not. Today is no different. Actually, it is probably worse.
Earlier that morning, before the actual separation hijacked my mind, I opened my closet and could not help but ask myself: what kind of mother do I want to introduce to the school? I could be fabulous. Cool. Put together without looking like the kind of woman who spends two hours getting dressed and makes her daughter run late every morning. The mother from Paris, naturally elegant, slightly eccentric but warm and friendly. I wanted the other mothers to wonder: Who is this mother?
The look I went for had very little to do with the mother figure I had in mind. Somehow, I had managed to dress as though I were the one about to go to class. A blue boyfriend shirt from Gap, medium-wash denim and brown suede Chanel ballerinas. Fortunately, my vintage camel Kelly was the only evidence that I was the grown-up.
Back at school, against all odds, my husband, my daughter and I arrive on time. We are the second family in the classroom. Orientation has barely begun, and I am already making a good impression. It must be the back-to-school outfit. My daughter, meanwhile, immediately begins butterflying between toys and tables. The classroom is her playground. Well, the same cannot be said for me. As more families arrive, I become quieter. Almost mute. The fabulous mother from Paris has left the room before introductions have time to begin. I move to the back of the classroom, sit stiffly on the tiny chair and wait for someone to speak to me. Nobody does. Excellent start.
Two older children, no more than four, arrive with their little brother. Within seconds, toys are flying across the room. Blocks on the floor. Plastic food everywhere. Complete chaos. I want to stand up, put everything back in place and tell those monsters to stop the carnage. Instead, I remain glued to my tiny toddler chair, waiting for someone to save the classroom. Then it occurs to me that someone could be me. My daughter bursts into tears. I jump off my little chair to pick her up and hold her tight against me. I realize that we have been having the same first day. She is shy. I am shy. She wants to leave. I want to run away and never come back. She is two. I turn thirty-seven in two weeks.
The following morning is our official first day of school, and we wake up late. Full disclosure: I wake up late. The back-to-school look does not make it to day two. I am right back in my high-school days, and those were not my brightest years. I throw on jeans, keep my pajama T-shirt on and slip into red sneakers. So much for looking put together. We arrive at school at nine. I am mortified. Drop-off was at 8:10. Forget about making a good impression on the mothers. They left fifty minutes ago. Perhaps that is not such a bad thing.
At the classroom door, my daughter bursts into tears again. I am about to do the same. Having a mental breakdown in the hallway will not get either of us through the first day. They close the door, and I can still hear her crying. I want to go back inside, grab her and run as fast and as far away as I can. Be strong, I repeat frantically to myself as tears roll down my face. Instead, I walk to my car. At least I did not have time to put on makeup. That worked out.
Sitting in the car, my self-respect at an all-time low, I remember that drop-off is at 8:10 every morning. At 8:10, neither my daughter nor I are operational. Now I will have to be awake, dressed and possibly pleasant to other mothers. My performance so far: D-minus.
I know better than to stay in the parking lot. Given another minute, I will march back into the classroom and withdraw us both from school forever. I begin to wonder whether I could homeschool her. Teach her math. No, that is a terrible idea. Instead, I find an Argentine bakery next door, order a coffee and a medialuna, open my computer and begin writing. My daughter is inside having her first day of school. I am next door, still wearing my pajama T-shirt, trying to recover from mine.
At pickup, I see another mother. Neither of us is dressed to the nines. We look at each other and laugh. “Tomorrow will be better. Upwards only,” I tell her. We laugh again. I think I made a friend.
Bisous