Day 20: Escape

Dear J-

Because figgy has been sick we kept her out of daycare (finally — we are those people who keep sending their child; in our defense, we’re probably only re-gifting the germs). I found out before lunch and after class, so I skipped out on the rest of the activities (today was planned to be a light day at any rate) and fairly flew home; I’m not terribly proud to note that I made it back in fifty minutes or so. And so of course I felt angry that I didn’t get the last hour or two our of class today and stewed about it for a few hours more, no patience for figgy or what she was asking for, whatever it was: milk, movie, or moaning. Stupidity multiplies once you sit there feeling sorry for yourself.

At some point — soon after we were done with Monsters, Inc. (I swear, it’s allergies, not the reconstructed door) and just after starting Meet the Robinsons, she fell into a deep, exhausted nap that carried her to six o’clock. I had more time to think about what I’d done: at one point this afternoon I was yelling at her, which prompted her to yell at me, and all we ended up doing was test the decibel levels in the house. What am I thinking? Better, what am I teaching? Does the loudest person win?

I’m reminded at odd points how much figgy has grown; whole sentences are issuing forth, underwear stays dry despite my paranoia, tea parties are planned with surprising sophistication (sure, we’re not talking sandwiches with the crusts cut off, but the dolls all have their place settings, and they’re not all jumbled up, either). The more I dare to assume, the faster she gets; she keeps sprinting where I had always assumed walking. We’re getting there. I need to catch up.

Mike

Fly High

Dear J-

After one particular parent-teacher conference in 5th grade, where the teacher, pleased with my progress, confided to my dad that they’d be able to place me in the “7th” grade reading level next year (they were implementing a new system; essentially, they slotted you in to one of three reading levels — above, at, or below grade level), he then asked why I couldn’t just go into 7th grade altogether. Not willing to let me skip that 6th grade year entirely — and it was a pretty important one, as the last year of elementary school before junior high (it’s since been amended to be K-5, 6-8, and 9-12) — they hammered out a compromise: two months of 6th grade to get acclimated to the new classmates, and then on with them to the big, bad junior high.

When my parents moved into their new house in 2006, they literally packed up everything without sorting — especially the things in our room — figuring that we’d eventually get around to looking through the boxes instead of having half a garage. This time I spent a few hours sorting through the boxes labeled “Michael” — some of those full of my brother’s college textbooks (I have a few boxes worth left to go through in our spare bedroom too), others full of schoolwork (I found the notes from our Russian Culture class, nearly twenty years old now). And finally, I stumbled across one of the boxes I was hoping to find — I used to keep various treasures of youth piled up in a chest of sorts: important papers, articles, crisp dollar bills, the advertisement from Sports Illustrated with Stephanie Seymour and Elle Macpherson.

The day I walked in to 6th grade was actually good timing — my 5th grade class was starting their year project (each student had an individual “state” report — my brother’s, three years ago, had been on Nebraska) at the same time the 6th grade had already turned in their “country” reports. But all else was horribly wrong; I knew of these people, like you know of people’s siblings and friends, but the divisions of elementary school dictated strong separation between classes: no mixing with the 6th or 4th graders and yet here I was, straight into the lion’s den, introduced like someone new from the foreign territory of Mrs. Presnell’s class.

I mentioned Stina in passing — I’ll have to elaborate on that particular thought later — but that first day, thinking of how long the next two months would take, Emmett stepped up to the plate and let me know that I wasn’t so weird, having been introduced as a permanent visitor from below with piano, reading, and airplanes on the mind. I ran across that same drawing in my parents’ garage and I had to sit down immediately; twenty years later it still staggers me, reminding me how lucky I am. Thanks again, thanks always.

Mike