Yes, That Child Is Mine!

As I was checking out my groceries the other night, a woman came up to me and introduced herself as my child’s teacher. I squinted, preparing for the punch that I knew was coming. Although, to me, my three children are such sweet little angels, all of them are wise cracking, adult avoiding, know it all, smart alecs. I just knew this woman was looking for some payback.

When she smiled and told me my child was a joy, I relaxed and beamed with pride. She also told me she was an English teacher. I hid my face, knowing that I was a business major and my verb contexts were reprehensible in this paper, and she was going to rap my knuckles for all those dangling participles.

She told me she liked last weeks story, and I beamed again, while worrying that she would quiz me on Chaucer. I was much more well versed on F. Scott Fitzgerald. So before she had a chance to ask me about Chaucer I quickly asked her if she had seen "The Great Gatsby" lately, and didn’t she love the scene when Robert Redford dances in the closet?

But, she went on to say how my child was doing in her class and that she wished she had had more time to visit on parents’ night. This was wonderful information. She liked to visit. I love to visit. I leaned on the check out stand and started talking away. If we stuck to F. Scott Fitzgerald, I would love to talk all evening. I mentioned that I also liked the Bronte sisters. The lady behind me slammed her giant sized Clorox bottle on the counter and glared. Maybe she didn’t like the Bronte sisters. Couldn’t she see I was busy furthering my child’s education? It had only been a few minutes. I would check out in a moment. Her Clorox wasn’t going to melt.

The woman grabbed a giant sized bag of frozen fish and slammed it next to the Clorox. Well, maybe that would actually melt. But not anytime soon. I turned back to my new friend and asked her how she felt about Hemingway.

More concerning to her was if my child was prepared to turn in a project the next day. I nodded and said, yes, I...ahem....we....they....were working on it at that very moment. (Notice I used the impersonal pronoun "they." Totally bad form, but this prevents my child from being identified by gender. They can claim I am speaking of their sibling, and it will prevent much teen angst directed against me. Thank goodness for siblings) The teacher said that she had assigned the project several days earlier and she knew that all her students had procrastinated. I promised her that I...ahem....we.....they would finish it before the next morning.

The lady behind me "accidentally" pushed her buggy over my ankles. I screamed in pain. Then she pointed at her super-large tub of ice cream. What a rash shopper she was. The ice cream looked nearly melted. Not exactly a great buy.

I knew once I stepped back to the register, my new friend would go away. Turning back to the line of sixteen people standing behind me, I sighed and backed away from my new friend to finish paying for my stuff. Gasping, I saw all the junk I had bought. What would this teacher think of me as a mother when she saw me purchasing all these chips? Maybe it was best to finish paying and lose my last few minutes of visiting. The lady behind me crossed her arms and glared at her tub of Blue Bell soup.

The teacher backed away and apologized for taking up too much of my time. But I shook my head and assured her it had been a pleasure. And far too short a visit. After all, I only had a short time left to be in a world where my children sat in classrooms where teachers knew their names and the phone numbers of their parents.

Soon they would drive away from home and be only a social security number in a school of 15,000 students, in classrooms of 200, and parents no longer exist. She had given me a most precious gift. She had given me one more time, and a few more moments, to puff up my chest and flush with pride. One more chance to tell someone new that, yes, that young person in her class, that wonderful, beautiful, most special of people, that wonderful child was mine.