Odd Mom Out (18 page)

Taylor continues to move the meeting along at a nice, crisp pace. She’s obviously done this before. Her points are precise. Her tone is friendly and yet firm. I’m in Taylor Young’s favorite domain.

“It’s our job to make the school more efficient. It’s our job to free up Mrs. Shipley’s time so she can concentrate on teaching and not all the extras.” Taylor’s impassioned words generate a nod of agreement among the gathered women.

“We have to do everything we can to support Mrs. Shipley, and the best way we can do that is by taking a one- or two-hour block each week to assist in the classroom,” she continues. “If you can come in twice a week, or even every day for a couple hours, fantastic. The more help Mrs. Shipley gets, the better job she’ll do with our kids.”

I’m trying not to let my jaw drop. Every parent here volunteer in the classroom two hours every week? With seven parents here, that’s a minimum of fourteen hours a week. That’s nearly three hours of volunteer help a day. And what would we be doing during those hours? This is fourth grade, not kindergarten.

Taylor presses on. “I’ve put together the schedule and will send it around with the volunteer sheet on a clipboard. Pick your preferred slot before we open it to the rest of the moms. Or if you have an area of expertise, let us know now so we can get you assigned to the right activity. We need moms to make copies, moms to grade, moms to sort papers, moms to record the grades, moms to work on bulletin boards, moms to read with kids who need a little extra help . . .” And at this last part, Taylor’s voice drops. “Again, if you can do more, I strongly encourage you to volunteer for a couple time slots. There can never be too much help.”

I wait for someone, anyone, to raise her hand and protest.

Someone here, someone besides me, has to wonder if a teacher—a highly trained teacher who once taught at the high school level—really needs this much parental assistance (read “interference”). But no one does. Instead, every maternal head is nodding, intent on her mission of making sure her child has the very best school experience possible.

Even if it means Mom’s back in school full-time.

Knowing I’m about to be the lone voice of dissension, I slowly raise my hand. Taylor sees me and calls on me: “Yes, Marta.”

I smile at her to show her I know she’s the quarterback on the A team and I’m a third stringer on the bench, but theoretically we’re on the same big team. “From what I’ve heard, Mrs. Shipley is an extraordinary teacher, and I’m wondering if this might be too much help.”

Taylor’s dazzling white smile freezes. She cocks her head ever so slightly, eyebrows lifting as if she doesn’t understand the question. But she does. I can tell from the creasing at the edges of her brown eyes and the very unsmiling expression in those eyes that she knows exactly what I’m saying. And from Taylor’s taut, terse smile, she’s letting me know that we’re most definitely not on the same team. “Marta, you’re new here—”

“I’ve been here a year and a half.”

“And you’re still learning how things work here, and maybe in New Jersey—”

“New York.”

“Maybe there moms didn’t help out very much, but we do here. We’re committed to making sure our children have the best education possible.”

“I agree, completely. I just thought our efforts were supposed to be more . . . behind the scenes.”

“There are twenty-three students in the class. And only one teacher and one part-time aide. How can a teacher realistically teach all twenty-three kids without more help? There’s only one of her. And nearly two dozen students.”

Thank God she did the math for me. I wouldn’t have been able to figure out that challenging teacher-to-student ratio on my own.

“Right,” I continue. “But what about those of us who work? How can we be in the classroom two hours a week, every week?”

My question’s greeted by absolute silence. Am I the only one here who works? Do none of them have jobs outside the house? Does no one else need to contribute to the paycheck?

Taylor’s face rearranges itself, her power smile returning. “Most of us have made the decision to stay home and be full-time mothers. We find that it’s so much better for the kids having Mom there every day.”

My mom didn’t work while I was growing up, and I’ve got to tell you that it didn’t make me a smarter or a better person. Did having Mom there every afternoon make me more secure? Possibly. But not having Mom there wouldn’t have made me more insecure.

And thinking back, way back, when I was growing up, my mom did volunteer, and she did pitch in with parties and chaperone field trips, but she didn’t spend two-plus hours at school every week. In fact, no mom did. They’d come in periodically for a project like a bake sale or the greeting card and candy bar fund-raiser, but they didn’t live in the back (or front) of the classroom.

I’m not sure why it bugs me so much to think that moms are there all the time, but it does. We’re supposed to help our kids learn to let go, but if we don’t let go, how will they?

Isn’t school a time for children to learn responsibility and self-reliance?

Taylor hands the clipboard to the woman to her right. “When the sign-up sheet comes to you, just put down whatever you think you can do. And don’t worry, Marta,” she says, shooting me a smile that whispers of condescension, “I’m sure between all the moms here, we can cover for you.”

Chapter Ten

After that wonderful parent kickoff meeting, I’m not particularly anxious for Back-to-School Night. Taylor will be there again, and I don’t like having to be away from Eva for a second night in one week.

Happily, Allie agrees to stay with Eva for tonight’s Back-to-School Night so I can go and learn about the wonderful year Eva’s going to have and how we’re helping the Bellevue School Foundation help us. Which is a nice way of saying that they’re going to be asking for more money from us very soon.

I’ve never felt comfortable at Points Elementary parent events, and that surprised me when we moved here, because I always enjoyed the parent nights at Eva’s school in New York. Maybe it’s because here in Bellevue I feel like the odd mom out—not just a single parent, but a woman who hasn’t yet made any friends.

I definitely need some friends.

Speaking of friends, I never called Tiana back. I completely spaced.
Dammit.

Eva helped me get ready for Back-to-School Night, making a few too many suggestions re wardrobe and hair.

Not that shirt, Mom.

No, not that one, either. It’s ugly.

You can’t wear those pants, they make you look fat.

Wear something nice, Mom, the other moms always do.

In the end, I leave the house wearing what Eva thinks is appropriate for a parent education night: black shirt and black slacks with a beige-khaki car coat. I’m wearing heeled black boots, and my long hair is combed straight but otherwise loose. In my opinion, I look as if I’m going on a dinner date, but Eva’s happy. She seems to feel I finally represent her properly.

I give my little social climber daughter a hug good-bye and head out the door.

Tonight I’m not late, but by the time I reach the school, the parking lot is overflowing and I’m forced to park on one of the residential side streets flanking Points Elementary.

The gym is brightly lit and buzzing with conversation and laughter. The rows of folding chairs are nearly all full, with lots of Asian and Indian families in the middle and back rows, families lured by Microsoft to add to their technical workforce, while the front rows have been taken by the eager-beaver parents who got here early.

I find one of the last open seats on the side near the wall toward the back of the gym. As I sit down, I adjust my coat, put my purse at my feet, and cross my legs to appear properly busy.

It’s a rowdy crowd, conversation punctured by raucous laughter, and as I sit in my chair, my hands folded neatly in my lap, I feel something I’m starting to feel more often.

I’m lonely. Not wildly, miserably lonely, but the whisper of lonely, the lonely that makes me think I need to get out more, I need to network and socialize, I need to maybe have people in for dinner or a movie or something.

Maybe this is what Eva’s been feeling. Maybe this is the emptiness that’s been bothering her. Our lives are a little too quiet here in Seattle. Our world is a little too routine, and this wasn’t how we lived in New York. Our lives in TriBeCa were colorful and unpredictable. Friends dropped by all the time. Shey would call and invite us over. We ate out frequently, Greek food one night, Cuban another, the Jewish deli at least once during the week.

Now I’m meat loaf and potatoes.

How sad is that?

Again I think of Tiana and Shey, and I don’t want to replace them. But maybe I can’t continue being such a lone wolf. Maybe I do need to make friends here, friends who are adults and have perspective, friends who can listen and give suggestions, friends who’ll laugh and celebrate the successes and, on the bad days, offer a hug and a glass of wine.

The principal, Dr. Fielding, is at the microphone, and the meeting begins. Every school meeting seems to be filled with the same good-intentioned people making the same good-intentioned speeches that all somehow manage to be achingly boring.

The Korean family next to me with three kids attempts to shush their youngest, a toddler, as she fusses. I look at the child with sympathy. I want to fuss, too.

People continue to arrive even though it’s now fifteen minutes past the hour. One man arrives and takes a position against the wall not far from me, and immediately heads turn and people murmur. The man looks quite nice, broad-shouldered, sturdy, a balding head, but otherwise ordinary, and I’m not sure who he is or why he’s suddenly attracting so much attention.

“Steve,” someone a row down from me whispers, “here, take my seat.”

“Steve, do you want to sit here?”

“Hey, Steve, I don’t mind standing if you want to sit.”

But Steve declines each offer, shaking his head and smiling. “No, no, I’m fine,” he answers.

I’m curious about this very popular Steve. He does look familiar, but I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve seen his picture somewhere or if it’s because he looks like the wholesome, hardworking midwestern farmer I used in an ad campaign last month.

Tuning out the third speaker, I glance around and spot faces from the Points Country Club pool. Lana. Taylor with her husband, Nathan—he is good-looking in a very scrubbed Ralph Lauren polo ad sort of way. Mary-Ann Lavick, who definitely didn’t enjoy my company at last week’s brunch.

I continue scanning the crowd, impressed by the number of dads who have shown up. It’s good to see so many men taking an interest in their kids’ education. I know my dad never attended any school meetings, not even the parent-teacher conferences. That was always my mom’s job. But then, anything to do with me seemed to be Mom’s job.

Maybe that’s why I had a baby on my own. If my mom could do it, why couldn’t I?

Then, as I finish scanning the gym, looking for anything remotely interesting, my heart falls and I go all hot and fizzy.

He’s here.

He’s here right now, standing at the back of the gym with dozens of others, yet he stands out. Head and shoulders far above everyone else.

I take a quick breath, jolted.

I thought he was huge when he passed me in the fog on 84th Street, thought he was imposing at the grocery store, but here, next to the other men, the other dads, he looks like a mountain.

As I sit there gawking, he turns his head and looks at me.

It’s the same cool, piercing gaze from before. It’s intense. Discomfiting.

Flustered, I look away, shift uncomfortably in my seat.

My eyes burn, and my pulse races. I feel breathless again, which is ridiculous because I’m not running, not even moving. I’m just sitting in a putty-colored metal chair listening to people talk about buying new math technology and fund-raising to afford more teacher aides. Yet I can’t breathe. I can’t get enough air.

Suddenly too warm, I take the program given to us and fan myself. Hot, I’m so hot, and I wish I hadn’t worn all black with this car coat on top.

But it’s not me making myself hot. It’s him. And I can’t let him do this to me, can’t respond like this. So ridiculous, so silly. I’m being silly.

Yet I turn my head and look again. I’m like a schoolgirl, completely infatuated and unable to stop myself.

He’s so . . . so . . . everything.

He has the coloring of great Scottish warlords, his short, thick hair shades of red and gold, and his features are strong, male, as though whittled by wind and weather and war. He reminds me of a time long ago, of battles and warriors, peasants and kings.

Makes me almost wish I believed in love.

Makes me wish—even if it’s just for a split second—that I had someone like him at my side. With me, to love me, maybe even protect me.

I never wish for things like that. I’m an independent woman, a fiercely self-sufficient woman, but lately . . . lately . . .

I blink, give my head an all but imperceptible shake. The romantic stuff has got to stop. I’m a mom at Back-to-School Night, and he’s not part of an ad campaign, he’s not part of some great sales scheme.