First published in the Ipswich Local News September 16, 2024
I’ve been writing back-to-school columns for 15 years, and I’m basically out of a job.
Our eldest is a junior in college. While the half-country drive to Chicago is no day at the park (it’s actually two days in rural Nowheresville), once she’s there — and her air fryer and Nespresso are plugged in — she’s all set.
Our youngest is officially a high school senior. I had her pose with her backpack and then posted it next to her preschool photo from 15 years ago, when the backpack was twice her size.
It was super-cute and heartwarming.
And then, you know, she drove herself to school. I think that’s a wrap.
I now exist in a perpetual state of being ready to parent but assuming most of the time I won’t need to.
There are no more decorative paper chains to help make. There are no more forms to sign (well, there probably are, but I never see them anymore).
Sure, there are sports, but this is not my “last sports mom” column (that’s its own chaotic cliff I am hurtling ever-faster towards).
I doubt my senior will ask to go to the playground after school, so I will never meet the moms worrying about the lunches brought home with only half-eaten, unopened little cups of blueberries and forgotten carrots.
I want to whisper, “That’s because Bobby brought in cupcakes for his dog’s birthday and everyone ruined their appetite!”
I probably won’t be invited down to the science room, where chiseled Styrofoam is demonstrating the cell structure or representing a planet.
I want to say to those parents, “You will need to take up an aggressive gum-chewing habit in order to handle the frustration of the at-home art/science/history projects, because no matter how much you say you won’t do them, trust me, you will. That mitochondria doesn’t carve itself!”
I certainly won’t be asked to attend the uniform swap of the lower grades, where I’d tell the adults in conspiratorial tones, “There is really no point in buying the gym shirt — they lose it on the first day.
And really, they are all unisex in size and fit, so I just grabbed them out of the lost-and-found as needed.” That might gross some moms out. They’ll learn.
I have nothing left to do beside be ready and available … just in case.
And then, this first week of school, having not been consulted on outfits or notebooks or homework strategies, I got a text. “I plan on making chicken with salad for lunch this week with this kind of chicken.”
Our newly minted senior sent a photo of some teriyaki chicken looking artfully displayed in a bowl with rice and veggies. “Can you buy this kind of chicken?” she asked.
I zoomed in on the photo. Not seeing any brands or labels, I walked into the next room where she was sitting and texting, as if she were states away. “I’m happy to look for this chicken. I just need to know the brand.”
She stared at me. “It’s just chicken, in small pieces, in teriyaki sauce.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, “So this is a picture of a recipe to make teriyaki chicken. But you love to cook!”
She shook her head. “I can’t touch raw chicken, and I don’t know how to get it into those small pieces.”
I smiled brightly. “Well, thankfully, there is a Chicken Fairy who does that, and it’s just super-easy.”
“Really?” she asked hopefully.
“No, for heaven’s sake!” I snapped. “There aren’t even Dinner Fairies, despite my decades spent looking for them. How could there possibly be a Chicken Fairy?”
“Well,” she asked, “how will the chicken get into small bite-sized pieces for a teriyaki bowl?”
We all know how that is answered. Because, of course, there is a Chicken Fairy. She also doesn’t care for touching raw chicken (food fairies rarely are named for what they prefer), but some mom ahead of me in time is whispering back, “Cook the chicken. Next year she’ll be living off of dinosaur nuggets in an air fryer!”
And so, one more time, we are back to school.