Youthful
e stroked his bald head and then chuckled at his own punch line.
The same punch line of the same joke he�d been telling parents at
back to school night for the last seven years. I refolded my program,
recrossed my legs, and rechecked my watch. I noticed the American
flag standing on the corner of the stage and began silently listing
patriotic songs. After I had sung the first two to myself, polite
clapping startled me out of my private concert. I blushed, thinking
for a fraction of a second that I had been serenading the audience.
All the other moms and dads were hurrying out of the auditorium,
many of them showing less self restraint than my children on a long car trip.
I couldn�t hold them at fault, though, since I took a deep breath and bit my lip to keep from yawning wide enough to show off my fillings. For many of the parents, this would be their one and only chance to visit Potter Elementary. Their baby sitters would probably become more familiar with the school than they would. I was pondering this as I made my way down to room 114 to meet my son�s first grade teacher. She seemed as cheerful as the posters, charts, and murals that brightened every corner of her room. , Mrs. Hillard seemed impossibly young, and she was; �I�m 26 ,�she said ,�newly married, and yes, this is my first year teaching.� Suddenly I felt decrepit. I was 26, too, 26 going on 40. I had married seven and a half years ago at the profoundly self centered age of 18. I had three children. As Mrs. Hillard spoke of her plans for our children her eyes glittering and her voice nearly giddy, I tried to remember the last time I hadn�t felt so tired. When I arrived home, the gang was sleeping and Mom was watching the end of an old black and white movie. She collected her baby sitting fee of a hug and a thank you at the door. I threw on my p.j.�s and slipped my imaginary cane under the bed.
6:45 came all too soon. Fatigue squeezed my temples. Andy started the day with his usual early morning complaints. "At least it�s Friday", I reminded him. "You can sleep late tomorrow." I brushed his silky dark hair as he played with his Cheerios ,then, hurried him out the door. Isabella and I were in the shower when Joey charged in with his cap gun. I screamed, she cried, and he hid. Lucky for him dressing a 18 month old takes so long, because by the time Isabella and I were decent, my ears had stopped ringing and the phone had started.
"Duke," I said, "phone." He had crawled into bed sometime after 1. He grudgingly took the phone and grunted at it. By the time I had pulled Joey out from under his bed and dropped him in front of his cereal, Duke was fumbling with the coffee pot. I was deciphering bits of the conversation he was having with his brother in their Philippine dialect.
He was smoking on the back porch when I finished ironing his shirt. I wanted to tell him about my geriatric experience the night before, but instead I asked about his cough. "Better," he said.
After Joey was safely deposited at preschool, Isabella and I went to the play ground. All the "professional mommies," as my friend Rose and I had dubbed them, were there with snacks galore, jogging strollers, fanny packs and perfectly fit bodies. I looked down at my ample thighs and sighed.
My back ached as I lifted Isabella to the top of the slide. "Beeeeeee!" she said as she slid to the bottom. She reached for me, her five- toothed smile sweet as sugar.
When I unhooked her car seat in the parking lot at the elementary school I noticed that my head didn�t feel quiet so heavy anymore. Isabella played with the water fountain while we waited for the dismissal bell outside Andy�s classroom.
I swelled with pure pride when he told me about the math game he�d played. Two students at a time would race to solve an arithmetic problem and the winner would challenge the next student. "I kept going around the world, Mommy, so Mrs. Hillard let me hold the flash cards."
The tension in my lower back had eased considerably by the time we pulled up to community center. "Ready Joey?" I asked. "Not yet."
He carefully arranged the cardboard blocks on the shelf , straightened the fire trucks and scooped up the last few legos. Total bewilderment. A silly grin landed on my face.
We sung along with Harry Belafonte on the way home. Even Isabella joined in on the chorus shouting "Day-o!"
When we turned the corner, we saw Duke�s car in the driveway. "Daddy�s home!" Amazingly, he didn�t lose his balance when the boys climbed up his back and hung on like opossums. Duke shook them off and slid the pork chops under the broiler. "The meeting was canceled," he explained. "I rented some movies." Later , when I was scratching his back, I noticed my 26 year old hands. I got up and washed my unlined face. As I was studying my image in the mirror, I noticed a single white hair. With amazing deftness, two arthritic free hands reached up and plucked the colorless strand.
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