Her golden hair was brushed with sunlight and expensive conditioner, and tied in a neat ponytail atop her head. On my way home, sans kiddo, I found myself walking next to someone who could only be described as Gwyneth Paltrow’s young sister. But then, before I had the chance to weep the ancestral weep of a thousand clingy parents-in-arms, she was gone, happily floating in a sea of kids on their way to discover the myriad joys and sorrows of institutionalized learning. My daughter, however, was jaunty as can be in her rainbow-colored dress, running a little ahead of me as I tried to pull her back for one last hug. I was the hottest mess that ever walked that sidewalk. My sweat from the 90-degree morning pooled behind my ears, of all places. I suspected - nay, knew - I’d forgotten my deodorant. The buses huffed and puffed cheerfully into the parking lot, little faces pressed to the germy windows, while lines of cars snaked down the street.Īnd me? I had forgotten my daughter’s mask, I was wearing the equivalent of pajama shorts, and desperately trying to remember whether peanut butter was allowed in her packed lunch. Parents juggled strollers, wagons, and dog leashes, screaming inaudible words of caution or love - it’s hard to tell the difference at that decibel. Around us, kids scootered by at breakneck speed, streaming onto yards like day-glo-clad ants, lugging behind them overfull backpacks and all the last regrets of summer. The first time I took my daughter to kindergarten, we walked a couple blocks from our house to that squat beige building where she’ll spend a handful of her formative years. At any moment, you could be swept up in a tide of sticky little bodies, never to emerge the same person. If there’s one immutable truth I’ve learned as a parent of a kindergartener, it’s that drop-off line at an elementary school is an absolute jungle. This story was developed in conjunction with 2nd Story Chicago last fall, and has never been published or performed anywhere.
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