My nerves are totally shot!
We went to my son’s school tonight (by the time this goes up it’ll have tomorrow’s date, but whatever) for a mandatory [Mascot] “camp”.
And let me stop right there to ask: Since when is a two hour meeting and campus tour defined as a “camp”? It seems like everything kids do at school these days outside school hours is called “camp”. When I was a kid and someone said “camp”, it meant I’d better take my sleeping bag and some insect repellent.
After we violated fire codes by packing over 300 students, their parents and all the teachers into an auditorium that seats about 400 people, all the staff members introduced themselves and said how much they love our kids. We then split up into groups and went to separate classrooms.
The original plan for this segment of the evening’s entertainment was to pick up textbooks. Only we couldn’t actually take them because it was pissing down rain, and they didn’t want the books getting damaged (I guess they’ve never heard of plastic bags). So there’s an hour wasted.
Next, we went to find the students’ lockers and make sure their combinations worked. My son opened his in about a minute. So we then had to wait in a hallway so crowded the body heat alone was stifling while they fiddled with the ones that didn’t work. We had to stay with our groups.
And now the tour begins. At this point, my chronic pain has kicked in and I can hear the staircase laughing at me. These people are trying to kill me. This “camp” is a conspiracy to do me in, once and for all. What else could it possibly be?
But I decided not to start complaining. This is important to my son, and I’ve managed to conceal my discomfort and irritation thus far. I will survive. Probably.
I climbed that staircase without so much as a grimace and even managed to smile at a few people in passing. We did our thing up there, and then had to go back down. The stairs, that is. Oh well, down is much easier than up. Gravity does all the work for you.
We finished the tour and headed to the gym, where the students had their photos taken for IDs and purchased P.E. uniforms. There was a line for each. With about 100 people already queued. Standing. And it’s hot. Really hot. Did I mention the pain? Oh, the pain! And the noise level in there was very high. You know how gyms echo. So now my head is starting to pound too, and I’m starting to sweat heavily.
I checked the time, and it was 7:45. This was supposed to be over at 8:00 (no chance!). The bus we needed to catch would be there at 8:10, and the next one didn’t come until 9:10 and would be the last one for the night.
Bearing that in mind, I approached my son’s advisory teacher (I never had an “advisory teacher”, did you?) and explained the situation. She said with a smile, “Oh, that’s OK! You don’t have stay. We’ll be doing all this again on Monday anyway.”
What? So why the fuck exactly was this “camp” mandatory? I didn’t actually say that, but it was all I could do not to.
I didn’t need a tour of the school. It’s not like I’ll ever get past the front desk without having my ID scanned and receiving specific instructions on how to get to the one and only place I’m logged in to be. You know, in case I’m a terrorist or something.
So, basically, I went out in a fucking thunderstorm —on the bus— just to get wet. I guess the pain was my door prize.
Don’t get me wrong. I think it’s important to know my son’s teachers. I’m not a PTA mom or anything, but I’m as active as I can be in my son’s education and I’ve always made a point of keeping in touch with his teachers. But this seemed so disorganized and unnecessary!
Can I have that Xanax now? Please? In fact, make it a double!