In Which I Attempt to Play Well With Others

Lucas started preschool this fall. Nothing drastic, just a 3-year-old program for a couple of hours, two days a week. We thought it would be good for him, socially and academically, and good for us, in a termporary thinning-the-herd kind of way. Three kids minus one kid equals two kids, if only for a short time.

In spite of my initial anxiety that he might have some trouble adjusting, Lucas has performed like a rock star. He loves his teachers. He loves the activities. He loves playing with kids who aren't his brothers. Lucas is doing great.
I, on the other hand, am struggling. Just a little. Everyday when I go to pick him up, I dutifully check his little mailbox cubby for any notes to go home. The first week, I am greeted with an order sheet for the Cookie Dough Fundraiser. I understand the need for fundraising, I do. I did my time as a Girl Scout hauling cookie order forms, peanut order forms, and God knows what else door to door across the neighborhood. But I was older than Lucas and able to do some of the work myself. Granted, I still conned Dad into soliciting his co-workers (my dad, incidentally, should have been an honorary Scout--the man sold some serious cookies), but I shouldered some of the burden. Lucas, however, is THREE, so I doubt he's up for going door to door. So this Cookie Dough Order Form, with "L U C A S" penned neatly in the upper right corner, is really a ruse, a kind if slightly passive-aggressive way of letting me know, in this time of economic crisis, when homes are being foreclosed upon in record numbers and the country's largest financial institutions are failing, that I am expected to solicit friends, loved ones, and possibly total strangers to purchase $10 vats of cookie dough so that my son's preschool can purchase a large musical instrument for their outdoor nature area. Fantastic.

This is the first hint that I might suck at preschool. The form lies on the kitchen counter for two weeks before I convince my mother to order 3. Ron and I order 2. There is an embarassing number of blank lines left on the page. I have visions of West Omaha Uber-Moms sashaying into school with order forms so copious they actually require staples. "Hope this is okay," they say with affected, slightly giddy nonchalance, "We had too many to fit on one page, so I just stapled them together." I couldn't even bring myself to ask my next door neighbor-slash-confindante-slash-fellow mom-in-the-bunker, Steph. I just couldn't. I know someday I'll end up buying useless random crap from her son, Caden, because that's what good friends/neighbors do, but right now, Steph only has the one child. I have THREE, so, in my mind at least, buying from the first to come through the ranks sets a dangerous precedent. I imagine neighbors peering through their blinds as I approach year after year (after year). "Oh God!" panic in their collective voice. "It's HER! AGAIN!" they say, "Oh God!" If they buy cookie dough in the Fall, what will they be expected to purchase this winter? In the Spring? What??? And what will happen when all three of my children are selling things at the same time?! What then?! This is like my own little circle of Hell right here.

So the day our C00kie Dough Fundraiser Forms are due back, I sort of slide into preschool unnoticed. I mean Lucas does. I mean I just sort of walk him in and point him toward a table activity without drawing undue attention. My blue form is folded neatly in on itself so as to avoid the potential public humiliation of only having two lines filled out. Three, I guess, if you count the pre-printed SAMPLE line. I approach one of the teachers. "Hi, Miss Rubi," I say, adhering to that bizarre preschool more whereby you refer to all teachers by their Preschool Teacher Names rather than real-world titles, "Do we just give these to you?"
"Yep," Miss Rubi smiles, glancing briefly at the sheet in my hand, "That's fine."
"Great," I say cheerily, handing it over. There is a visible indentation where my sweaty grip once fell. The paper is still folded. "Have a good morning," I turn quickly and exit before she has time to examine our order. Gad. I am pathetic.
I reason with myself on the van ride home. At least I got it in on time, I think. That was something. But I am a grown-up, and I suppose that's the general expectation. I just don't want them to think poorly of Lucas because his mom is a fuck-up. I mean in addition to our less-than-stellar performance in the fundraising arena, I also missed Snack-Time Sign-Up for September. By the time I found the sheet hanging on one of the many bulletin boards, all the Tuesday/Thursday spots were taken, so now I check the board first thing each time, waiting for October to appear so that I can put us down for some super spectacular and conciliatory, if obligatory, treats.
Preschool is hard.

Next Up: Why I Fear the Class Directory.