Chapter Twenty-Three: Kindergarten (I've Been in School for Two Weeks - When do I get Paid?)​​​

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     Everyone is afraid of something. Fear of heights, public speaking, insects – the list is virtually endless. As a child, my personal phobia came dressed in black and put all those other fears to shame. Like most males educated in Catholic schools – I was afraid of nuns.

 

     Now an adult in my thirties, my childhood bete noire should have been a distant memory, a campfire story useful only for terrifying my offspring and annoying my wife.

 

     With Emily’s transition to kindergarten, however, my adolescent fear would soon be making a comeback. Emily’s school, Saint Andrew’s, was one of the few grade schools in the Cleveland Diocese still primarily staffed by nuns.

 

     Emily did possess one built-in advantage – she was born female. Even as a child, I realized the nuns favored the girls. It was, to be fair, an understandable bias. With few exceptions, the girls I knew in school were more courteous, polite and paid way more attention in class than the guys.

 

     As a guy myself, I possessed none of those qualities. My own grade school behavior alternated between smartass and disinterest, my inclination tending toward the former. According to my mother, the lowlight of my school career occurred when I ran down a nun while playing tag on our grade school playground. That incident marked my first trip to the principal’s office, my permanent record now branding me as one of “those” kids.

 

     Now my daughter would be entering a similar lion’s den, and I would need to go with her. Saint Andrew’s Grade School mandated a “get to know you” meeting a week before school started to familiarize a kindergarten child’s parents with their student’s lesson plan.

 

     Despite Alma’s insistence, I doubted the need for such familiarization. While by no means a genius, I knew my numbers and my colors - what else does one learn in kindergarten?  Nonetheless, Alma took the day off work and insisted I go with her. Since he couldn’t very well stay home alone, I took Jack along for protection.

 

     We would meet Sister Catherine, Emily’s soon-to-be kindergarten teacher, and Sister Eileen, the principal of Saint Andrew’s. It would be a two-nun day, the equivalent of a hangover on steroids. I warned Jack before we got in the car.

 

     “Whatever you do, don’t make eye contact with either nun.  That just sets them off, like the lions in that wildlife show we watched on TV. If either of them looks like they’re ready to pounce, it’s okay to hide behind me. That’s what dads are for.”

 

     “Are the nuns really scary, mommy?”

 

     “No, they are not.”  Elbowing me, she asked, “Why would you tell Jack that stuff?  What will you do when it’s his first day of school?”

 

     “I’m just trying to prepare him for the real world. Like it or not, the real world contains nuns – fewer than when you and I were young, but he needs to know they’re still out there.” 

 

     “Don’t listen to your father. Follow my lead, be respectful, and you’ll be fine.”

 

     After two more Alma warnings followed by a repeat of her “be respectful” line, we arrived at Saint Andrew’s and entered the main school building. Once inside, we were directed to Sister Eileen’s office, where we met the school secretary.

 

     Like every secretary in every school in America, Mrs. Salondra was a grey-haired woman whose age stood somewhere between seventy-five and one-hundred forty-seven. Sitting behind a huge desk disconcertingly similar to the one manned by the receptionist for Jack’s pediatrician, Mrs. Salondra glared as we walked through her door.

 

     “Sister Eileen is running late. I’m afraid I only have three chairs, so one of you will have to stand. “

 

     I tried to be cordial. “That’s okay, Mrs. Salondra; Jack can sit on my lap.”

 

     Mrs. Salondra glared in my direction. Perhaps it was what I said, or maybe she was just having a bad day. Whatever the reason, it was the look one typically receives only after being caught kicking a puppy or turning the radio station to a George Michael song. In another flashback to Jack’s pediatrician, I wondered just what this secretary had hidden behind that desk of hers - mastiffs, perhaps, the kind that drool as they contemplate the taste of human flesh. With that in mind, I allowed Jack to sit on the final chair all on his own. Mrs. Salondra seemed satisfied with my choice, and I was once again safe, at least for now.

 

     Alma appeared oblivious to the potentially homicidal urges of Emily’s grade school secretary. As the only one seemingly aware of the danger, I remained alert, keeping one eye on Mrs. Salondra and the other on my seemingly unconcerned wife and children.

 

     Finally, the door opened, and a slender, pretty young woman stepped out. Roughly my age, I wondered what prompted her visit to the principal’s office – an overdue library book, a torn page in her son’s second-grade reader?

 

     To my shock, the pretty young woman beckoned us into the office. Could this be Sister Eileen?  I didn’t think the church allowed nuns to be young, much less pretty. I assumed they weeded out those traits in the convent, like some nun version of the Hogwarts sorting ritual. I then wondered if I could go to hell for even thinking a nun was pretty.

 

     Maybe that transgression was reserved for someplace worse than hell – it would make for an interesting theological question.

 

     Rather than dwell on Catholic doctrine, I followed Alma and my children into Sister Eileen’s inner sanctum. Sister Eileen closed the door after I walked through. Twenty years from grade school, I had worked my way back to the principal’s office.

 

     Unlike her waiting room, Sister Eileen’s office included four guest chairs. After apologizing for Sister Catherine’s absence, she began the interrogation.

 

     “School’s a big step, Emily. Do you think you’ll be ready in September?”

 

     Emily didn’t answer – she just stared, transfixed. Sister Eileen looked confused. “Are you okay, Emily?  You don’t have to worry – I won’t bite.”

 

     Sure - that’s what they all say

 

     Emily somehow found the courage to speak. “Are you a nun?  My dad said all nuns wear black.”

Sister Eileen’s stare moved in my direction. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Alma had taken a sudden interest in the office rug – I was clearly on my own.

 

     I tried to make things right. “I’m sorry, Sister. I went to a very traditional Catholic grade school. The nuns wore black; the priests wore black. When you think about it, it was amazing any of them survived the summer.”

 

     Never joke with a nun. Sister Eileen was still staring, and Alma now looked like she had suffered a stroke. As a student, my sense of humor resulted in a number of rapped knuckles. Today I wasn’t taking any chances. With one eye on the door, I prepared to flee if necessary.

 

     Luckily for me, Sister Eileen was feeling generous. Shifting her attention back to Emily, she tried to make light of the situation.

 

     “We moved away from black years ago. We found it was scaring too many of the parents, not to mention some of the local dogs.”

 

     No longer studying Sister Eileen’s brown rug, Alma decided it was safe to rejoin the conversation. The rest of the interview went considerably smoother. Emily aced her knowledge of numbers one through twenty and proved no slouch at identifying primary colors. Jack looked confused at the latter, and I made a mental note to remind Sister Eileen Jack was color-blind before he endured his own kindergarten interview. Once Emily passed her test, we handed over our first tuition check, and my daughter was officially admitted to Saint Andrew’s Grade School.

 

     When Emily’s first real day arrived, I was charged with getting her up, dressed, fed, and off to school. Dressing was the easy part. Like most Catholic schools, Saint Andrew’s had a prescribed girls’ uniform consisting of a red, white, and navy, almost tartan skirt with an all-white top. With Alma along so I would not screw anything up, we had purchased two of those outfits at the local grade school uniform store, a retail outlet I never knew existed before that day’s Saint Andrew’s shopping spree.

 

     Emily tried on the uniform in the store’s dressing room. After she came out to show me, I got my first full-scale look at the unusual color combination.

 

     Looking older than her six-plus years, Emily stood before me and asked, “Do you like it, Daddy?”

 

     “You look beautiful, sweetheart, like the headliner in a Scottish bagpipe parade.”

 

     Alma looked at me warningly, “Alan …”

 

     Emily, however, seemed happy with my assessment. Maybe she stopped listening after beautiful, or perhaps she liked bagpipes – who could know?”

 

     For his part, Jack seemed disturbed he was not getting an outfit. I explained it was a rite of passage, like joining the Scouts when you turn seven or a colonoscopy when you reach fifty.

 

     “What’s a colon thing?”

 

     “Alan …” Alma warned again.

 

     “I’d tell you, but I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

 

     Uniforms sized and paid for; we went back home, where Emily returned to her ABCs.

 

     “With her determination,” I said to Alma, “she’ll probably end up skipping the whole grade school thing and go right to veterinary school.”

 

     “It would save us some tuition.”

 

     I then saw Jack, deeply involved in using his picture book as a ramp for his mini-fire truck.

 

     “Maybe, maybe not…”

 

     D-Day arrived sooner than any of us except Emily wanted it to. Determined to get the jump on her day, our over-eager six-year-old rolled out of bed at six a.m. to be sure she was ready to go. A morning person by nature, grade school, Emily was a morning person on steroids, bursting into our room and landing on my back after a flying leap.

 

     I was certain we had suffered an earthquake. Lifting one eyelid and vaguely recognizing my daughter, I realized the source of my disruption.

 

     “Why don’t you ever jump on Mommy in the mornings?”

 

     “Mommy told me you liked it when I jumped on you.”

I

     glanced at Alma, now only feigning unconsciousness, and hit her with my pillow. Looking not the slightest bit guilty, my wife took my assault as an excuse to get up herself and prepare for work. Before Emily managed to wake Jack - an act ripe with long-term consequences - I took my daughter downstairs and fixed an early breakfast.

 

     “You know you’re going to have to start sleeping in on school mornings. Sister Eileen told us a good night’s sleep was essential to doing well in kindergarten.”

 

     Sister Eileen had said no such thing, but it sounded like something a nun might say. I figured all’s fair when ensuring a full night’s rest.

 

     As my rule-following older child, my daughter promised to wake up at the correct time for the rest of the year. With Jack still sleeping, I made breakfast for Emily and Alma while preparing myself for the onslaught that was yet to come.

 

     As a morning person, Emily was prone to many of the quirks familiar to early risers. With Emily, that meant she woke up talking.

 

     “Do you think I’ll make friends, Daddy?”

 

     “What happens if my teacher doesn’t like me?”

 

     “What do I do if I lose my lunch?”

 

     I waited for a pause before attempting reassurance.

 

     “I think you’ll make lots of friends. Everybody likes you, so I’m sure your teacher will as well. Regarding lunch, are we talking throw-up or just misplacing your lunch bag?”

 

     “Daddy, you’re gross.”

 

     “So your mother has told me on many occasions.”

 

     As if on cue, Alma came flying downstairs, late as usual, and managed to wolf down four bites of cereal before vanishing out the door. Emily and I snagged kisses before she did so.

 

     “Take good care of our little girl. Don’t let her forget her lunch.”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

 

     “I will, and I won’t. I’ll also inform our divorce lawyer about you inciting our daughter to jump on her father.”

Alma smiled sweetly – still not the slightest bit guilty. “We have a divorce lawyer? You mean like on retainer?  That’s great – I have some stories.”  I figured I should quit while I still had a wife.

 

     Alma having abandoned me, I was forced to cut off Emily’s next question when I heard a noise from upstairs – our three-year-old grizzly had awakened.

 

     Jack was typically, even by Emily’s own admission, far more even-tempered than his sister. While that held true for most of his day, the exception was early morning. Based on experience, Alma and I typically allowed our son to wake up on his own. It wasn’t that his mood improved in those instances, but it served to keep us out of harm’s way.

 

     Awakened by the conversation downstairs, the sounds I heard were less cranky than normal, almost plaintive in tone. No novice in these situations, I still knew enough not to be fooled.

 

     No longer locked in a crib - not that a crib meant much to Jack anyway - I realized my newly-woke son could be anywhere. Distracted by Emily’s first day, I first checked Jack’s room.

 

     It was a rookie mistake. Standing just inside the doorway to Jack’s now-empty abode, I never heard the footsteps from behind. I may not have grasped the movement, but I definitely heard the growl.

 

     “Where is she?  I heard Emily.”

 

     In the version I told Alma, I turned around calmly, reminded Jack about Emily’s first day at school, and proceeded to help him dress. The truth was, I did none of those things.

 

     Startled by the unexpected voice from behind, I proceeded to jump. It wasn’t much of a leap, more of a hop, really, but my momentum landed me on Jack’s toy fire engine, the one with the realistic-looking ladder folded on top.

 

     My subsequent fall wasn’t much to be proud of, as I landed on Jack’s Buzz Lightyear action figure. Perhaps in protest or maybe because I fell on his speaking mechanism, Buzz informed me I was a “sad, strange little man.” I could understand why Woody hated him.

 

     My ensuing yell paled in comparison to the words that came out afterward. Adding to my guilt, Emily had come running up the stairs as soon as she heard the thump of my falling body.

 

     I picked myself up slowly, checking for intact limbs. Inspection complete, I then turned and saw my children standing behind me, stunned by their daddy’s inappropriate verbal display. I needed to address this quickly.

 

     “I’m sorry, guys. Those were some naughty words Daddy should never have said. I just wasn’t expecting to do a header in Jack’s room this morning.”

 

     “I’m sorry, daddy.”

 

     “Not your fault, Jack; just try and avoid sneaking up on daddy from behind. I would also ask that you never repeat the words you just heard, particularly to your mother.”

 

     “What do they mean?”

 

     “Today’s for numbers and letters. We’ll have that other discussion when you’re older.”

 

     Having given my daughter a first day’s education she would never forget, I dressed Jack and brought him downstairs for breakfast. Afterward, I took some pictures of Emily in her new uniform, and the three of us set out for school.

 

     I assumed, perhaps naively, that the rest of the morning would be simple. The first hint I was wrong came as I pulled into the Saint Andrew’s parking lot.

 

     Alma had told me there would be a drop-off lane. It turned out there were three, and I didn’t have the first clue into which one I belonged.

 

     Holding back words similar to those I uttered in Jack’s room, I sought assistance from my daughter.

 

     “Emily, do you know where we should go?”

 

     Emily pointed – “I think that’s the kindergarten building Sister Eileen showed us from her office window.”

 

     I had no memory of Sister Eileen pointing out anything from her office window, but I knew enough to trust Emily’s recollection. I parked in the church lot, unbuckled Jack from his seat, and the three of us walked to the kindergarten building. There we met Mrs. Carson.

 

     Attired in a red and navy blue jacket Saint Andrew’s jacket, Mrs. Carson was the unlucky mom assigned to kindergarten patrol. Harried and on edge, she was in no mood for the interlopers standing in her assigned area of influence.

 

     I was sympathetic. Escorting a nervous student myself, I could only imagine dealing with an entire horde. As I started to walk Emily into the building, Mrs. Carson stepped in front, brandishing what appeared to be a book. I had no idea what the book was, but she continued waving it in my direction. Having evidently committed another transgression, I stopped to learn the nature of my mistake.

 

     Reading her nametag, I said, “Hello, Mrs. Carson. This is the kindergarten building, correct?”

In no mood for pleasantries, Mrs. Carson continued waving her book. I couldn’t spot the title, but she appeared quite proud of it. As her waving slowed, I finally realized Mrs. Carson was holding a Saint Andrew’s parent manual. This was something new - I wondered why we didn’t have one. As I was to find out later, we apparently did.

 

     “Didn’t you read the manual?  Kindergarten parents have to park in the kindergarten lot before they walk their children into the building. The church lot is not to be used by parents.”

 

     “I’m sorry, Mrs. Carson. Don’t we all use it on Sundays?”

 

     “Sundays, yes, but not during the week. You need to move your car.”

 

     “I promise I will. In fact, I promise I will go home as soon as we’re done and read the parent manual from cover to cover. For now, though, I need to drop my daughter off for her first day of kindergarten.”

 

     Mrs. Carson appeared unsure. I had violated the rules, but nothing in the manual prescribed the proper corrective action. If she had a walkie-talkie, I suspect she would have radioed ahead for instructions. Finally, the manual now resting at her side, Mrs. Carson reached a decision.

 

     “You can bring your daughter into the building but be sure and park correctly next time.”

 

     “You have my word on that, Mrs. Carson. By the way, nice jacket.”

 

     Mrs. Carson appeared pleased at the compliment, and I herded Jack and Emily into the building before she could change her mind.

 

     Once inside, it was easy to follow the crowd to the main kindergarten room. Standing outside the door in her black habit, we met Sister Catherine, Emily’s teacher. It was at that moment I truly understood what it meant to be struck dumb.

 

     Sister Catherine was old, so old I’m sure there was a fossil record of her somewhere. Sister’s age, however, was not the cause of my first-day shock. Like most people who choose marketing as a field, I possessed what Alma described as a remarkable memory for faces. What I saw in the face standing before me was the same pair of eyes I first viewed thirty years ago. Sister Catherine would not only be teaching my daughter; she had been my kindergarten teacher as well.

 

     She was at least ninety then. I figured that would make her about one-twenty today. A flood of bad memories returning, I remembered Sister’s lectures on how our lousy behavior might short-circuit our eventual trip to heaven.

 

     According to Sister C., my personal kindergarten vice was my refusal to drink my milk in a nun-approved timespan. I would not only drink my milk too slowly; I would smile at her while doing so - smiling apparently forbidden at Saint John’s Catholic Grade school.

 

     Now that same nun would be teaching my daughter. It was probably my fault, but it had never occurred to me she might still be alive. I thought dinosaurs were long since extinct.

 

     I needed to recover before Sister Catherine sensed weakness. I started by introducing Emily and Jack. Having gone through this ritual too many times to count, Sister Catherine simply nodded, leaving me unsure as to my next move.

 

     “Do I just leave Emily here? Do you need me for anything else?”

 

     “Not unless you feel you need kindergarten instruction yourself, Mr. Lister. Do you feel you have that need?”

 

     Still shocked by her presence, I almost didn’t reply. Sister Catherine’s eyes still upon me, I finally managed, “No, Sister.” 

 

     “Fine. Emily, just walk in, hang up your coat, and I will assign seats.”

 

     I said goodbye to Emily, pulled Jack closer, and turned to leave. I thought I had managed an escape – I should have known better.

 

     “Alan,” she called when I was a few feet away, “I hope you taught your daughter how to properly drink milk.”

 

     My God, the old crone did recognize me. Best to answer quickly and retreat, if only for Emily’s sake.

 

     “We practice every day, Sister. Religiously, you might say.”

 

     Even her glare hadn’t changed.