The end of the school year is rapidly approaching, and my level of engagement is getting lower and lower as June gets closer and closer. Gone is the mom who used to check the backpack every day, ready to look over homework and stay on top of permission slips and reading logs. If I can rouse myself to check it weekly, I feel like I deserve a medal or a cookie. Tonight is the school’s annual carnival. Unfortunately, I think everyone’s reached the end of their willingness to participate. They’re begging for volunteers, but, to be honest, I can barely muster the will to wander around and watch my kid play the stupid games. I’ve done my time, back when Nan was younger. Hit up the lower grade parents, AKA the suckers.
When the flier came home, I eventually fished it out of her backpack and sighed. I asked Nan, with ridiculous unfounded optimism, “Do you REALLY want to go this year?” She responded, “Uh, YEAH.” Like, how have I managed to live this long when I am so dumb? I’m taking the bullet for this one—my teacher husband is burned out, and he’s spent the whole day at school, shepherding his students through their annual fine arts festival. Twelve more school days. We got this. Unless my kid comes home with some kind of insane end-of-year project that she “forgot” about… if that happens, I’m barricading myself in the bedroom with food and drink and Netflix. It’s time she learned to figure this stuff out herself. (I kid. Mostly.)