There’s a checklist attached to the application forms for the Nadel Center Early Childhood Education (NCECE) program at B’Nai Israel in Boca Raton. Under the masthead, “Making the transition easier for your child,” read some of the following suggestions:
{Insert big blank because I lost the paper}
Among the list, it will surprise you to learn, that it makes no mention of MAKING AN ASSHOLE OF YOURSELF, WEEK ONE.
This school has a carpool operation you’d imagine at an airport, with its specific procedures, lanes, and traffic directors, all with very specific instructions. So specific in fact, that parents are required to sign a form acknowledging that they were aware of said rules, lest they try to plead ignorance. I associated carpool with busy moms, trading days, whisking one another’s children to school in an effort to benefit the environment, saving on gas, and more important, sleep. But at B’Nai Israel’s Nadel Center forces are deployed at strategic locations, moved into position, ready for effective action. “It’s done for efficiency and safety,” that parents are asked to remain in their cars, sign their children in via clipboard, wave TA-TA, then a few hours later, rinse and repeat.
To ease their transition into a new school—they’d be starting Pre-K come Fall—we took the summer to enroll the taters into camp, which has nothing to do with camp. There is no flagpole lineup, no walks to the lake, lanyards or braiding beneath a tree. Horseback riding, canoe, negative. What this is is Pre-K “Prep,” that is preparing your child for pre-Kindergarten, before they’ve even officially begun pre-K. Signing our loves up would lead to a smoother transition once the school year began. They’d be familiar to their surrounds, have met some children their own age. But here’s what they weren’t counting on… their parents being dicks.
I was at the DMV living the universal hell that is the DMV. It’s just a hideous ordeal with hideous lighting and hideous people. My number was about to be called. I was next… but it was 2:38PM, and carpool pickup at the school is from 2:45PM to 3PM. The DMV is a ten minute drive, but I’d give myself fifteen because you never know what ‘pa or ‘ma you’ll be stuck behind in Florida. I hammer down the highway, over 80 mph, then rolled into the B’Nai Israel parking lot just as the 2:58 clicked to 2:59PM. There were my kids with their teacher, Miss Amanda. She works Tuesdays and Thursdays only, alternating with Mrs. Brown.
Miss Amanda says that carpool is closed, that I’ll need to sign them out. She says this sweetly, but she’s now also walking away. I say I thought carpool line ended at 3pm. She doesn’t say much, but is smiling and very nice… in that sweet people nice way, not in a false way. But it was Thursday, and she probably wanted to get the hell out of there.
So, I walk up to a clipboard, instead of someone handing it to me, as always, and I sign it. I wish her a good weekend, thinking she’ll help me load the kids into the car, since I’d pulled right up to where she was standing. But after I signed them out, she simply began to walk away, smiling, wishing me a good weekend. I felt like the inept parent, like I did something wrong, but I was on time, if only by a minute. And to not help the kids into the car, I dunno, struck me as uncaring, disconnected. So, I snapped the kids in and was off.
That night, over wine, I unloaded about my day, and when I came to the school carpool incident, said mostly in passing, how it felt strange and awkward to me, Phil lost his Matzo. “I’m calling there.”
“No way. Don’t you dare.”
“That’s just unacceptable.”
“Don’t. It wasn’t that big of a deal. It was just the straw, you know. I was just being sensitive.”
“Bullshine,” Phil says without the shine. “Our kids know what a mitzvah is, and even if you were five minutes late, they should still help you.”
Phil calls the Director of Education, Rebecca, on Friday, telling her how Miss Amanda was smiling the whole time, was very nice, but he didn’t think she should just bye/leave make me feel like I did something wrong. Then, he proceeds to tell the director that the kids “Really aren’t inspired by her as a teacher, and they really much prefer Mrs. Brown. I’m telling you this because we really don’t want Miss Amanda as either of their teachers this coming school year. She’s nice and all, but nice isn’t very inspiring. Mrs. Brown is fantastic, and the kids think she’s phenomenal.” The director tells him that she’ll take care of it.
Phil tells me this, and I want to die. He’s not the one who sees her. In fact, he’s never even met Miss Amanda. He is right though, we don’t want her as their teacher because she’s very mousy and blah, especially compared to the awesome Mrs. Brown who tells it like it is, who pays attention and right away knows if a boy needs OT. She knows the best books with the best lessons. We love her and have an instant connection.
Monday arrives, Mrs. Brown is in the classroom. I’m dropping off the kids, talking to her, asking about her weekend, etc. And she asks, “Are you the one who complained about Miss Amanda?” Uhh, well, me, no. My husband. I was telling him about my day, and he went overboard. “I just thought you’d find out anyway, and I’ve debated telling you, but it’s a funny story,” she says… “You know who Amanda is right?” I am a deer in headlights. At this very moment, I want to break all protocol, abandon all safety rules, and stand in the oncoming carpool traffic. Miss Amanda is the daughter of the Director of Education, Rebecca.
“She’s nice and all, but nice isn’t very inspiring.”
Phil went on and on saying how much he didn’t want her daughter to teach our kids! Called to complain about her, the purpose of his call. And now, the director has to think we’re incredible assholes. What do I do? Do I say something to the director or to Miss Amanda? I have a pit in my stomach and am dreading taking them to school today, seeing Amanda for the first time since “the dreaded call,” Do I say I want to apologize, that I had a nightmare at DMV and was particularly sensitive, and was venting about my day to my husband, and that I feel MORTIFIED that he actually shared my irrational rant? What do I do?
Okay, so I walk into their classroom to drop off the kids, and who’s standing in the doorway? Director Rebecca. Only she was talking to others and didn’t say hi, but I saw her yesterday, for a moment, and she said hi. Anyway, there were other parents around, so I didn’t say anything right there. So, I’m saying goodbye to the kids, and I see out of the corner of my eye that Miss Amanda is getting up, clearly to come speak with me. I ask her if I can talk with her for a moment, privately. Sure, sure, of course. We go out into the hall, and I proceed to tell her how mortified I am. That I had such a nightmare day at the DMV and then hauled it to school so I’d be there by 3, and then I show up and am told it’s over, even though it’s not 3, and I go home and vent all over my husband, who gets so protective, that he makes a phone call, despite my plea that I just had a bad day, and that I’m new and trying to get adjusted and don’t know that 3pm is late when the instructions say pickup runs through 3pm.
Miss Amanda says, no no, she’s felt terrible all weekend thinking she made me feel like I did something wrong, that she always wants to be nice to everyone and that she’s so sorry if it came across otherwise. I tell her again that I had a bad day and that I’ve already heard from several people that she is just that, soooo nice and great to everyone. Blah, blah. Then we hugged, and she told me how great the kids are blah blah.
Needless to say, neither of our kids had her as their teacher for pre-K, which was for the best. Abigail had Mrs. K, and Lucas had Ms. Rachel, both the right match for each child. I think the big lesson here is to speak to everyone assuming that they are the parent of the person of whom you are speaking. To assume your conversation is being recorded for all to hear. To assume everything you do is up for public consumption. My Hebrew school teacher once told me to behave as if God is in the room. He sees everything you do. Every time you act, every time you write a comment on someones blog, every time you gossip privately, assume it will get back to people with your name on it. Behave in a way that you can own proudly.
