The kids return to school in the fall and before long, it happens: kitchen counters everywhere start sinking like the Titanic under the weight of the massive paper load sent home from class each day. At least, that’s what happens at my house.
This is a pile of papers that, no matter which strategies I deploy to squelch it, I cannot make go away. I’ve tried moving it elsewhere, but the pile always seems to magnetize itself back to that same roosting spot on my counter. I’ve also tried tossing the papers, burning them, shredding them, and turning them into something more useful (Thanksgiving stuffing). But when the pile senses its life is threatened, it activates its regenerative instinct and instantly swells to quadruple its size.
I have married, given birth four times, signed my name to a mortgage, and had my eyebrows hot waxed. None of that strikes the same terror in my heart as seeing my little darlings’ bulging backpacks come through the door after school. Unloading fistfuls of papers, they add them to the stack. The larger the stack, the smaller my self-esteem.
I cannot—cannot—keep track of the deluge of notes concerning supplies to be purchased, scout registrations, book orders due, PTO meetings, fundraisers, bus-schedule changes, parent volunteering, school sweatshirts to buy, class picture money to send in, snack day sign-ups, holiday party–planning meetings to attend, and who knows what else because no one in this house has managed to get to the piece of paper holding the secrets to all these must-dos.
The papers also remind me that I am supposed to prepare each of my four children for their weekly spelling tests; quiz them on their math facts; help them study for their upcoming science, history, or geography tests; edit their English papers; review their journals; check and sign their homework; further enhance their learning by doing suggested “fun” home activities during my “spare” time; listen to them read every night—and clone myself into four equal parts. That’s the only possible way to get all this stuff done.
I fail horribly, unable to keep pace with all the fliers and notices that the school cranks out on the paper machine; I feel like Lucy and Ethel trying to keep up with the speeding chocolate on the assembly line. I have a calendar I try to write these things down on, but by the time I actually get around to sorting through the papers, I sometimes find I’m off by several years.
I work through the pile and find my daughter’s spelling test from three weeks ago, with half the words marked wrong. Thirteen inches under that, I find that week’s spelling list, which I was supposed to go over with her four weeks ago.
I redeem myself by quizzing my other daughter on her shapes.
“That’s not my homework,” she says, insulted.
“It has your teacher’s name on it,” I insist.
“That was my preschool teacher!” she, now a sixth grader, points out.
These papers mock my mothering, making me feel like a miserable failure. I’m sure my children wouldn’t argue the fact. After all, I’ve sent these kids to school with permission slips for field trips they’ve already taken.
They are no doubt tired of being the only kids in their class who are singled out daily to receive reminder notes concerning some paper I’ve forgotten to respond to, send in, or sign. (How helpful to cure a fire with more fire.) I can only imagine how quickly they will dissociate themselves from me (“I’ve never seen that woman before in my life!”) when again this year I arrive for the school Valentine’s party dressed in my Halloween costume.
Yesterday, I stood hip-deep in the pile, cursing the invention of paper and ink as I slogged through a thick stack of my third-grade son’s weekly work that had been stapled together for me to review and sign. Burrowing 1,795 papers into the stack, I stumbled upon an assignment that caught my eye.
On the top was printed: “Something that is as precious as gold to me is _______,” with the blank to be filled in by the student.
My son had written, “My mom is as precious as gold to me, because I love her.” It was illustrated with a crayoned heart containing two cartoon figures with matching hairdos who were hugging and smiling.
Like I was saying, I just adore that glorious stack of papers on my kitchen counter.
