By Esther C. Baird
First published in the TriTown Transcript Oct 3, 2019 at 3:01 AM
It began the first week of school. Our youngest daughter, a freshly minted middle schooler, headed off with backpacks and bags wearing gleaming new white Vans she had begged for. I relented even though white canvas shoes seemed like a sure way to quickly own dirty canvas shoes.
After school, she had soccer practice, and when I picked her up, she was a sweaty mess, but smiling. I had snacks ready for the drive, and dinner waiting at home. We were winning at back-to-school.
But when we got home and she went to unpack her various bags, she wailed.
“My Vans! They’re not here! I left them in the bathroom when I was changing for soccer!”
“Your brand new Vans that you had to have, or you’d die? The Vans that are whiter than the driven snow, blinding you with their light and therefore couldn’t possibly be overlooked?” I answered, momentarily not exhibiting the “winning” part of things.
I quickly rallied, “I’m sure they’re still there. You’ll find them in the morning. Fresh sliced apples?”
She quivered with tension, but hunger won out.After dinner and homework, I asked for their empty lunch boxes and our daughter froze.
“Oh no,” She stared.
Our older daughter, immediately assessing the situation, got the giggles (she’s in 10th grade and has sooo been there and sooo done that).
“What sweetie?” I was slower on the take.
“I left my lunchbox in my locker!” And she ran upstairs to grieve her lost childhood and memory.
The next day, all items retrieved, she vowed to do better. When I picked her up from soccer, she held up her lunch box, showed me her Vans in her sports bag and swung her backpack full of books. At home she happily jumped out of the car.
But I looked at her and sighed, “sweetie?”
“Yes?”
“You’re not wearing any shoes…”
She looked down, her face dropping. “My cleats!”
I remained calm and tried to sound reasonable. “You definitely are not wearing them, and that means you walked through the entire parking lot with no shoes on… which, you know, happens… I guess.”
That night we made a checklist and included every book, binder, bag, food item, article of clothing or shoe that she might ever need. We went over it as she packed her bag and made copies to put in her locker.
When we got to school the next morning, I dropped her off and said, “don’t forget to hang your checklist in your locker!”
She gasped, “I left the checklist on my bed!”
“Seriously!?” I exclaimed without a shred of calmness.
The next day (after, I kid you not, a forgotten science book and a lost sweatshirt) we put a copy of the checklist in the glove compartment as well as the trunk, and placed a copy in her backpack to hang in her locker.
Before we left the house, I called out each item on the checklist, and she replied “check!” Cleats, check! Shin guards, check! Extra sports shirt in case you get muddy and suddenly have to meet a famous celebrity, check! Homework, check. Checklist infused with your mother’s coffee-laced blood, sweat and tears, check. Lunch box, check.
Except.
When she hopped out of the car at school, and loaded herself up like a middle school pack mule, she turned white. “Mommy.”
I heard her tone and just couldn’t. This was our candy-colored child who lived in a world of sparkles, design, art and music. I simply didn’t have the tools to explain the tangible real world we live in, where lunch boxes had to be carried by hand to the car every single day. I couldn’t explain reality to her creative and easily distracted soul.
“I said ‘check’ because I saw my lunchbox, and was sure I’d grab it when I walked to the car,” I heard her saying from distant place where my body was. My mind had long since left.
My friend, who works at the school, said it’s totally normal — middle school, plus frontal lobes, hormones and social stresses were trickier than we remembered. My father, upon hearing of her plight, and having a similar personality prone to mental excursions in worlds not always our own, suggested she try approaching her checklist like a pilot. He explained that as they prepare to take off, they touch each switch or button as they check it.
This week, that seems to be working. Keys? Touch, and check. Coffee? Touch, and check. Oh, right, this system is for our daughter. Hmmmm.
Sanity? Sanity? I’ll get back to you on that one.