Just Call me Ed…Special Ed

It was parent information night at school. We had an hour to get ready. I was wearing a wife beater with no bra. Skye, my husband, was wearing a t-shirt that was too short. But if all the cool guys are showing off their midriff, and all the cool chics are going al naturale then me and my guy are superfunk cool.

“What’s our strategy? Show up looking like bums so the teacher takes pity on our child and gives him extra attention?” Skye asked.

“Definitely. If we show up looking like everyone else, he’ll get overlooked.”

The boys believed us. There were protests. Speeches. Clothing critiques.

Skye disappeared into the back of the house and reappeared with a crisp, clean shirt that fit him. I finished my dinner and put on a bra and a blouse that said, “I bathe regularly and clean the kitchen right after every five course meal.”

Not literally. It said that without having to say it. It was polka dotted. Nothing says, “You can rest your sandwich on the toilet tank at my house, it’s so clean” like a polka dot blouse.

The second we walked into the school “it” happened. I turned into a nine-year old. It was time to shake the teacher’s hand and I couldn’t make eye contact. I could barely face her. If you ask me to describe her, all I can say is she’s a blond. She wears glasses and black toenail polish. And her shoes were the same color as her toenail polish, with cork soles, open-toe and very shiny.

She reached out to shake my hand and said, “I really enjoy having your son in my class. He’s a neat kid.” I was standing on the outside edge of my pigeon-toed feet. Suddenly my hair was in braids and I had buckteeth, a milk mustache and band-aids on both knees.

I think I replied, “Ummmmm. Thanks!” and spun around toward base. My tiny chair. My son’s chair, really. Words with more than one syllable completely escape me the second I walk into a school. I raise my hand before I speak. I pretend to be listening even though I am thinking about painting my toes with black polish, too. Should I do that myself or have that Vietnamese woman do it who makes me scream and laugh and screamlaugh when she sands down the tips of my toes?

The teacher’s voice sounds like a teacher in Peanuts. “Wanh wanh wanh waaaanh, wa waaaanh wanh waaanh wa wa.”

I look at her with wide eyes and nod. I want her to think I totally agree, everything she is saying makes sense, I am taking it all in, and she is doing a marvelous job. I am one of those listeners that the speaker keeps looking at for assurance. I am their cheerleader. I nod. I smile. I am only responding to the intonation in their voice. I can’t process a word.

I am, instead, thinking about her eyeliner, and imagining her leaning over her bathroom sink and carefully applying it with a steady hand while holding her breath. I am thinking about how she dried her hair and dragged the brush from root to end with the blow dryer nozzle pressed against the brush, to completely straighten it. She is so lucky she doesn’t have curly hair. She wouldn’t be able to over heat it like that. It would break and dry out and frizz up.

When she points to the next slide, I turn my head. I can’t read the slide. The letters are perfectly large and visible. But I cannot read the slide and listen to the intonation in her voice, to know when to turn my head back to her again. I’m waiting for that. All the other parents are spaced out, too. But I have so much experience acting like I’m not spaced out, that I am the first person to turn my head back toward the teacher when I detect the change in inflection.

I turn, smile, nod. She smiles back. I know she’s taking mental notes on which parents listen and which ones are totally checked out. I am completely acting as if I am as alert as my child and the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. If only I had half of Vincent’s ability to pay attention. With 1/16^th of his ability to attend, I’d function better than this. But, alas. I am an imposter in a polka dot blouse.

During the last five minutes of her speech, I am mentally practicing how I am going to say goodbye to the teacher to make up for the lame hello. “It’s really nice to meet you, finally. Vincent loves fourth grade.” Or “It’s really nice to meet you. Vincent really likes you.” Or maybe I’ll say, “I love your toenail polish and your shiny shoes! What sort of product are you using in your hair to keep it from drying out?” I decide to go with “It’s nice to meet you.” And leave out the toes and the shoes and the hair and Vincent.

It’s my turn next to shake the teacher’s hand and say goodbye. I wait patiently for the mom in front of me to move. I want to shove her out of the way, and get this over with, but I want to hide behind her, too, because the anxiety is mounting.

When it’s my turn, I can’t speak. Was I going to say plan a? plan b? The teacher shakes my hand again and says, “I love having your son in class. He’s such a great….” And then she stops herself because she sees another mom standing next to me. She corrects herself and says, “I love all of the kids. They’re all special.”

I leave holding my head up high. I’m no more mature than I was before walking into the school. I’m walking by all the other parents, making a b-line for the door, thinking “My kid is special! My kid is special!” I’m singing it in a nanny-nanny-boo-boo chant.

He is special. Whereas I am special Ed.

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