School Days

The play - Voices from the High School - went off without a hitch in the school cafeteria last night. My daughter, who directed the one-act, had a serenity about her which she later explained so eloquently to me. "It's not me making an ass of myself. If they screw up, everyone's watching them. I just want it to be over." Okay, she's not so compassionate, but who would be at this point, after weeks and weeks of practice and no-shows and whining all around? She needs to start studying for her AP History exam.

While I love seeing the fruits of my daughter's labor, as an adult I have always hated walking into the school buildings. It's always a painful flashback sequence of shy girl hell, weird smells, and having such a tiny circle of friends that a single absence left us misfits bereft and awkwardly alone. I could frequently garner a teacher's pet position, but eventually realized that this was not particularly a privilege. It left me being bullied into sharing homework and notes, or even worse - being ignored. I imagine that some people genuinely look fondly back at their school days, but for me, the honor roll, a few wonderful teachers, poetry and art classes, and making perhaps a half dozen good friends are the only positive experiences that I recall.

And all of this floods me like some ancient psychosis every time I have to go to a school function. Needless to say, I could not stomach more than a few P.T.O. meetings. Thank goodness my ex-husband actually seemed to enjoy taking over that part of the parent thing. Outside of school I could be Supermommy, organizing pony parties and sleepovers for twelve girls without breaking a sweat. But a single parent-teacher meeting can drive me directly to margaritaville, hold the salt.

So it was a little gratifying when I walked up to the drama teacher after the play and he confessed to me, still nervous as a cat, that he spent a few pre-play minutes in the restroom vomiting. He has always struck me as a formerly awkward student, a lot like me. I really understood.

And now, the next hurdle: my dreadlocked, countercultural angry daughter signed up for the high school beauty contest. Partly as a dare she set up to involve other friends in this fundraiser, but partly because even calloused, be-dreaded, Goodwill-clad girls deep down want to be pretty little princesses too. I am even willing to buy the sequined gown - I blame some of this on letting her go to preschool in princess costumes and red tutus. She has had a crazy flamboyant style ever since.

The worst if this: a couple of days ago when I went to get the oil changed in her little Ford truck, I found a post-it note on the rear-view mirror that said "Mystic Tan" with a date and hour. My God, my baby is gonna get herself airbrushed.

Where did I go wrong?

Note to self: bring anti-nausea medication to the pageant.

NTD