Different
Vol. 3, Issue 41
Last week I took my two-year-old daughter into her sunny orange classroom to meet her three teachers who will help her count numbers, sing songs about animals, and formally integrate her into the American school system. A big green paper tree had plastic leaves with a dozen names written on them in erasable marker. I stared at the names and became wistful: After today, they will never be the same – they will become cool or strange or bullies or geniuses. Some will graduate with a 4.3 GPA and win scholarships to Space School, and others will drop out at 14 to work for Uber. It's like Opening Day: Anything's possible. Everyone's record is 0-0.
Two other parents were there with a younger, more precocious kid, boasting to the teachers that even though she was a "young two," she was potty-trained. (Just pee, though, and she only poops when she naps, so she's not exactly a child prodigy.) I wasn't annoyed by them or their child, but I still didn't say hello because I have a particular and unpleasant social anxiety when I'm around new people – but even more so around other parents. When it comes to small talk or friendliness, I'm stumped: Is this when I should say hi? Shouldn't they say hi first? Blagggh-ur-blaggh-purfloomp.
A few minutes passed, and the couple spoke openly and loudly to the teachers, and it was clear they were ignoring me, too, but I decided it was time for me to pipe up now or stay quiet until the grave. I silently rehearsed my introduction: "Hey, I'm A.J., and this is my daughter [REDACTED]. It's great to meet you, and who's this happy little person?"
But, nope, it didn't happen. I stayed preoccupied and quiet. I walked around the classroom and convinced myself that I was polite by not interacting with the parents. I rationalized that they probably don't want to talk to me because they're probably super embarrassed. Aha, I get it – best to leave them alone. It's just the classroom tour day, so we certainly don't have to mingle like it's a swingers party.
I small-talked one of the teachers in the meantime – the oldest, least intimidating one, of course – about Covid protocols and where to pick up and drop off each day while my daughter crammed little plastic people inside a little plastic elevator.
I waited impatiently for the parents to leave, but they stayed and lingered, and the silence between us in that small orange space was maddening and ludicrous. Finally, they filled out their last form and asked their last question, and they gathered up their preternaturally potty-trained child and walked out. "See you Wednesday!" they said to the smiling teachers. I looked down at the floor and lightly tapped my foot against one of the toys as if I were making sure it was up to code and pretended they'd left too quickly for me to say goodbye.
*****
I've dreaded the first day of school since an hour after my children were born, not because of any sentimental yearnings for them not to grow up but because I am terrified of interactions like this. Wednesday would be even more challenging – it would be my daughter's first real day and my son's first Pre-K day, so there would be even more parents and more opportunities for me to be off-putting and weird. I half-seriously considered what the real impact on their socialization would be if I just kept them at home for a few more years until I was ready for prime time.
Why am I like this? Or why am I still like this? I covered most of my origin story in an older newsletter:
"On my first day of nursery school, I wore a fireman's hat and carried a plastic shoe bag full of my favorite toys around with me like some tiny prop comic. We took the first day of school photos as a class and most of the other students dressed for the occasion. Some of the girls wore neat and shiny dresses with bows, and some of the boys even came in suits and ties. I kept my fireman's hat on and, perhaps sensing another opportunity to alienate myself from my classmates for the next decade, had a bunny rabbit puppet on my left hand, completely visible in the shot peeking out between two of my classmates' heads.
There was always some variation on the fireman's hat and bunny puppet bit throughout my life: consistent class-clownishness coupled with disruptive, frequently disturbing ways to get attention.
All the usual colliding factors exist for why I became such an unexceptional fuck up, but I forgot how desperate I was to belong. I wanted to belong – but I also needed to stand out.
I spent most of my elementary school years trying to find the perfect Dale Carnegie-approved formula for success. Still, I knew precisely where to be in the social hierarchy of 11-year-olds I was around: I wanted to be more like the kid who'd backflip off the high dive at the swim club on the busiest day of the year and less like the one who had rocks thrown at him on the way home from the bus stop.
As an adult, I never figured out how to do that without drinking and drugs."
So that's what we're working with here.
In my worst nightmares, my children are pre-teens and involved in travel basketball. I'm sitting in the bleachers amongst the other parents who are all cheering loudly, practically screaming, positively crazed about what they're witnessing in this particular game. "Which one is yours?" another Dad asks me after one of his sinks another shot from half-court. And then I'll point to one of mine sitting on the bench. "Oh, you're [REDACTED] 's dad? Nice to meet you." Then he will invite me over to his house to have BBQ and margaritas, and I'll have to say, "That sounds great, but I don't drink, and I no longer eat meat." I watch his eyes narrow and the shock on his face. "Even margaritas?" Once I explain that I'm an alcoholic, he gets super uncomfortable but tells me, "the invitation still stands," but I can tell he will never speak to me ever again.
Wednesday will bring me one step closer to this becoming a reality.
*****
And when Wednesday finally came, it was much more hectic than my nerves could stand. My son, the oldest, wasn't ready for the day either. We couldn't drag him out of there during his visitation last May, but he's a mess today. I tried to pretend I wasn't a mess, but I think he could tell I was uneasy. There were so many more parents milling around the drop-off line, including one dad who was – no lie – barefoot. In typical situations, I'd consider this gross, but on this day, I envied him. Barefoot Dad may have been completely insane, but he has the type of confidence I've coveted my whole life.
I often wonder if it's too late for me to become someone different, just a total reset of my personality, interests, and hobbies. There are days when I want to be Surf Dad or Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu Dad or Beach Volleyball Dad. Maybe those are too ambitious. But could I ever be Barefoot Dad? Like, what would happen if I came back to pick up my kids barefooted. I think the teachers would not let me take them home because they'd assume I'd had a nervous breakdown. But I'd certainly let Barefoot Dad take my children home. He'd had it all figured out – I know he'd keep them safe. I'd probably let Barefoot Dad take them whitewater rafting in the Congo.
I became more resentful as the morning dragged on. All the parents are primarily white and they all had tattoos – on their calves, on their forearms. One Super Cool Mom has an elaborate snake piece coiling up her leg. No one is in a gang or probably even in a ska band, but here we all are in this Pre-K parking lot, tatted up like assholes, terrified of nut allergies. This type of petty judgment is what lets me forget about my insecurities for one whole minute.
Before they went all the way into the school, I kneeled and adjusted our children's lunch bags and Covid masks. I looked up briefly and saw the parents from Monday's tour. I quickly focused on my son's mask so they wouldn't see me, but they both looked my way and smiled and gave a big wave like they were happy to see me. Well, this is a surprise, I thought. So I stood up, wiped my hands on my waist, waved back, and mumbled, "Hey, how are ya?" only to watch them walk right on by and say hi to another couple directly behind me. The knot in my stomach tightened and I became dizzy with embarrassment and almost fell backward. What I felt in that terrible moment was what made me want to stay drunk all the time.
But as my children finally were all led away by their teachers, beyond the gate, into their orange rooms, and onward forever, I reminded myself that my life is now secondary, possibly irrelevant. I am just a vessel of love and support. It's time to grow up because things are different now.
