I’ve been told I’m a surprising mix of a girl–that I’m out of the box, that I beat to my own drum, that I am “unique”. And I suppose, it’s all true.
At heart, I’m a bit of a free-spirited Bohemianartisthippie type. Really. I am. I’d rather be barefoot than wear shoes. I’d rather make my own from what I have in my hand than buy. I‘d rather volunteer than own. I’d rather enjoy a picnic in the park than eat at a fancy restaurant in a five star hotel. I’d rather homeschool than let someone else teach my precious (outofthebox) wonders. I love skirts (twirling ones especially) and the ballet, but hate makeup and fussy hair and long nails. I am friendly and outgoing, but an introvert at heart. I love Bach, Boston, Dave Brubeck, Fleetwood Mac, and the Indigo Girls equally.
I suppose then, it’s no surprise that my family is just as surprising.
Somehow I ended up in my middle years, a mother in law (now THAT is crazy talk) and a mother of a preschooler (and THAT, well…that is completely out of control).
I am forty-(shmashma) years-old and my baby starts school.
His first day.
Yeah…so….I’m not sure how I feel about this.
No matter what, I’m NOT going to be one of those lunatic moms who hovers and smothers and smooths and pats and takes a million pictures. Ok, well, maybe I am going to be one of those, but I’ll only do those things in the most endearing ways (of course!).
Ev and I met his teacher today. While we were driving there, I told him that his teacher’s name was Mrs. Johnson.
“Hmm.” He mused aloud, “that’s a nice name for a…a lady.”
He paused and then continued, more to himself than to me, “But I don’t think she’ll have sparkly teeth.” Another long pause, “I hope she doesn’t have sparkly teeth, but I suppose I’ll have to wait and see.”
I can see him in the rearview mirror, thinking hard. His brow is furrowed, and he is really wondering and worrying over this.
“Well,” I say in the best manufactured cheerful voice I can find, “I’m sure you will like her, and I am sure you will make some good friends.”
Sure enough, when he went into the classroom, he met his teacher and liked her very much (she doesn’t have sparkly teeth for those of you wondering). He also met a boy named John who will be in his class.
All was going well until the teacher suggested I trim his bangs so he doesn’t constantly push them out of his eyes in class. I was stunned. What? Trim his hair? Trim the hair of my little hippie boy with a wildly free spirit like his mama?! You’ve got to be kidding me!
Oh oh oh…. Maybe this whole school thing is not such a good idea.
Her request goes against the very grain of the very grain that I go against.
I homeschooled all my other children, after all; I never had to answer to the “suggestion” of another teacher. I was the boss. The queen bee. The head honcho.
Yeah. I know. Don’t say it.
I suppose that makes me bit of a free-spirited Bohemianartisthippie type…CONTROL FREAK.
I suppose it also makes me rather inflexible in my flexibility.
Another surprising mix in the mix of me? Well. That’s no surprise at all.