I'm sure there are lots of things about the educational journey I've taken with my children that I'll miss. I can't come up with them right now, but I'm sure they're out there somewhere. "Donuts with Dad?"
Yeah, probably that.
And while I'm sure that's not exactly everything I'm going to miss, now that I'm down to one and counting, I'm sure of something I won't.
Paperwork.
More specifically, the wheelbarrow full of forms, documents of understanding, "contracts," permission slips, order forms, acknowledgements, memos, applications, waivers and what I'm pretty sure is a birthday card we are required by the school district, state, county, city, federal government and U.N. to fill out every year before the collective powers that be will allow our children to stay off the streets and take a swipe at actually achieving an education.
I understand it's worse in private schools, since all the forms are written in Latin. OK, a lie. But I had you going for a minute there. Or more specifically, "oing-ga or-fay oy-a inute-may er-thay." Wait, that's not real Latin? So maybe my high school wasn't exactly Exeter. But I digress ...
And before we travel too far down the River of Indignation into the Paternal Heart of Paperwork Darkness, let me say that, while I can't be sure, I imagine no educator in his or her right mind said, "I'm going to spend four plus years of pretty hard work in college plus the student teaching then dedicate countless hours honing my skills as an developer of young minds so I could spend a significant percentage of my time shuffling huge stacks of paper that will probably be filed and never see the light of day again."
So I can imagine while I may huff and puff over yet another questionnaire, my children's teachers have all felt my pain, multiplied by whatever the state max per classroom is. That's a figure my kids can actually determine, thanks to the same people who aren't any happier about having me confirm our permanent address, in triplicate, for the 12th straight year, but would appreciate it if I'd quit whining and just fill out the form. In something approaching readable handwriting, please.
Which brings me to the crux of this current diatribe. See, the Lovely Mrs. Smith and I have been at this a while. A long, long, long while. We've had kids in school since Benton County had more cows than people in it. Not only do we pre-date the current highway expansion, we pre-date the current highway.
So filling out forms for four kids with, basically, the same information we filled out last year and the year before and the year before, etc., gets, well, a little old after a while. Say, after 1995.
And while we understand how some of the information might be pretty important, we're left to wonder under what circumstances the school might be called on to contact our child's dentist. Unless they're wanting to spill the beans about the time his lunch consisted of a bag of double-stuffed Oreos and a cheese stick. Hey, his mom was out of town and he packed it himself. Which also explains the "one dress shoe, one tennis shoe look."
We're also more than happy to share that, no, he hasn't developed any new medical conditions, unless you count being a teenager. Which means these forms are showing up last minute, because he forgot them. In his car. Which he doesn't remember where he parked. Which is OK, since he's not sure where the keys are. Which is OK, because the windows are down. Which isn't so great, because it's starting to rain.
And while he certainly hasn't been exposed to everything, we're pretty sure he's not any more allergic to anything more than he was four months ago when he last darkened the school's doors. So, feel free to add that Cherimoya cobbler to the lunch menu, secure in the knowledge he won't swell up and develop boils. Mostly because there is no way he's going to eat it.
We are, however, happy he's elected to bring us all the forms in a somewhat orderly, mostly legible and somewhat clean manner. In the past, he or his brother or sisters usually delivered them in the very bottom of a backpack, under a leaking Juicy Juice box and already-used gym clothes. I mean, seriously, one day of school and they already smell like that?
Now I realize this is all about to end. Another year and those forms will include graduation announcements and college applications. No one is going to ask us to be Home Room parents, and if he wants to use a cellphone in class, not only will we not have to sign a contract, we'll have paid for the privilege.
And, yes, there will be parts of that I'll miss. The first few days of school each year are really the best, full of hope and promise mixed with a little anxiety. And hard as it is to believe when you get started, the clock is ticking. Sooner or later, it runs out. And there may actually be some tears that it's over.
Thankfully, I can dry them on all these forms.
Commentary on 08/21/2015