For my birthday this year, my mom bought me the boxed set of the entire season of My So-Called Life. For those who don’t know what it is let me explain:

Best. Show. Ever.

Got it?

If that isn’t enough description. Run to Wikipedia and read the description. I’ll wait.

When I was in high school, MSCL was, at times, the only beacon of hope in my otherwise tortured high school existence. OK, maybe that was a wee bit dramatic. But seriously, it was the first show I’d ever watched that “got it.”

90210 it wasn’t. The characters didn’t all drive BMWs their parents bought, or rally around Donna Martin graduating. They dealt with falling in love, betrayal, friendship, lost loves, unrequited crushes, annoying parents, supportive parents, etc.

I still remember watching the pilot of that show. In it, the main character, Angela says something about how parents always ask you how your day at school went. But school is like a drive-by shooting; you’re just happy you survived. When I heard that line, I fell in love. Hard.

So, I sat down and watched all of the episodes again. And completely reconnected and understood and felt like I was fifteen again. The second I heard that opening music, I became all giddy and clapped. My husband didn’t quite know what to make of it.

I guess the good news in all of this is if I have a daughter someday and she tells me how I can’t possibly understand her life, I’ll pass along the DVDs and say: “Checkmate. Yes I do. But you still can’t miss curfew.”

Oh and I also discovered I’m still in love with Jordan Catalano. So hot. But so weird-looking now.

Anyone?

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“Dear 4^th grade parents …” says the latest letter. This has become a theme lately. “Dear 4^th Grade Parents there will be a 4^th Grade Graduation on …” “Dear 4^th Grade Parents … there will be a farewell picnic on …” “Dear 4^th Grade Parents there will be a middle school orientation on …” This might seem sweet - even thoughtful - on the outside. Do not be fooled. They send these to me, a “Dear 4^th Grade Parent,” because they want to RIP MY HEART OUT AND TEAR IT INTO A MILLION LITTLE PIECES.

 You see, despite my repeated attempts to make them listen to reason, our otherwise excellent school district suffers one fatal flaw: they think that ten year olds belong in middle school. In my day, “middle school” (also quaintly known as “junior high”) didn’t begin until 7^th grade. By then I was 13 years old and so deeply in the throes of puberty that they could have enrolled me in a Russian prison or Disneyworld interchangeably and I would have been none the wiser. At that age, I rarely noticed anything beyond my own navel-gazing obsession with myself.

 By the time I entered the hallowed halls of middle school where PEOPLE OLDER THAN YOU ARE LYING IN WAIT TO BEAT YOU (AND YOUR SELF-ESTEEM) TO A NUB I was armed, at the very least, with a sense of self-preservation and some strawberry lip gloss. I also had a comb in my back-pocket that could easily have doubled as a weapon.

 My son, however, knows nothing of the mean streets of middle school. In elementary everything is soft, fuzzy, and sweet. He has been led to expect that people should be kind and thoughtful. He has been taught that bullying and making others feel badly about themselves is not to be tolerated. He believes with his whole heart that to be different is to be celebrated.

 In short, he’s been sold a load of goods.

 Orientation. Last night we parents all filed into the middle school auditorium to learn how our lives would change. Notice I said “our lives?” Sure, the kids are probably uncertain, unsure, and nervous about this brave new world, but really, isn’t what happens to my kids really all about me? How can I be the parent of a middle-school child? I have friends with children in 5^th grade in other districts and they still get to be elementary parents. Why was I not given a vote on this academic super-sizing of my child from “little” to “middle?”

 As we toured the middle school (which, curiously, shares a building with the high school) We were repeatedly assured that a variety of double doors and sentry staff would keep those ever-present high-school students at bay. After a time, I became more concerned – not less. I’m not entirely sure what those high school students are up to down the hall, but apparently, they bear carefully watching lest they escape and cause mayhem in the middle school.

 I find the security ironic since in my day a high school student wouldn’t have gone within arms length of a middle school kid unless he or she was being paid to do so. And even then  - just barely.

 My son seems enthralled with the idea of finally having a locker and the ability to walk the halls between classes. Lunchtime (where for the first time ever they get to sit with anyone they wish rather than assigned seating) sounds enticing rather than terrifying. Then again, he’s always been far more confident than I was at his age. Lest you get the wrong idea, I attended a very safe public school system myself. Nonetheless, it was just habit to glance at those long-awaited lockers on the tour and instantly assess whether your average ten year old (or mine) would fit in one.

 Tagged. It seems only yesterday my letters read “Dear Kindergarten parent …” and I fastened a plastic nametag to his shirt and sent him off into his future. The nametag was very important and clearly far more for my security than his. It said who he was (and who he belonged to); where he was going (which teacher would meet him); and what he would need to assist in his journey along the way (bus number, lunch number, class number). I don’t know about him, but I certainly felt safer having it there.

 Now there is no nametag (because a middle schooler would die of shame). Yet, if he had one it would tell you who he is (my whole world); where he is going (wherever his dreams take him as long as we don’t break him first); and what he will need to assist in his journey (a lot of hope, a dash of dreams, and a boatload of guidance. See also: please don’t break).

 “Dear 4^th Grade Parents” they write yet again, to which I can only sigh, pray, and reply:

 “Dear 5^th Grade … I beg of you, please handle with care.“

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My son is almost a year old, which means that things have finally gotten a bit easier. He sleeps twelve hours at night, is entertainable in public, diaper blow-outs are few-and-far-between and reaches for me while smiling and babbling, “Ma ma ma ma ma ma.”

So.

I was a little irritated to realize all of the things he’s not “supposed” to do once he turns a year old–use a bottle, play in the jumperoo, drink formula.

Apparently, once a kid turns one, they enter early-Toddlerville and it’s time for Big Boy stuff like walking, finger food and sippy cups. Before we know it, we’ll be blowing the fuck past those milestones and it’ll be time to mark the liquor bottles and set the parental controls on the porn channel.

While I don’t object to any of these things and realize they’re just part of growing up, it’s hard to realize that we’re going to be jerked out of our complacency and back into “I have no idea what the hell to do” mode. Just when I was SO enjoying the feeling of having this Mothering shit down. (Although my son challenged that feeling yesterday when he managed to gnaw paint off our walls while I was in the bathroom. I’d like to thank my family and Jesus for the Mother-of-the-Year Award.)

I guess my parenting lesson learned for the day is: When it comes to parenting, it’s best not to get too comfortable. Treat child-rearing in same manner as snake-charming–always be alert, ready to react and never underestimate your opponent.

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No, no I’m not asking for donations…

But I am asking for suggestions.

Now, I enjoy cooking. It’s summer, I’m chunky, I REALLY dig having a BBQ and homemade baked beans almost every night, but on the rare nights it’s “too hot to cook” I enjoy going out to eat with my husband, and the kid. But what I don’t like, is the kids menu options…

Chicken fingers and fries

Pizza

Burger and fries

Macaroni and cheese [or some other pasta, but NOTHING Whole Wheat]

And the other day, I went to a little independetly owned place and got chicken, and fries for her [eating the fries myself, and peeling only the white chicken thus letting my meal grow cold] and throwing away the pack of Oreos they included for dessert. Like okay, carbs carbs and OH WAIT here’s some Oreo’s!

I know places like Wendy’s try to include like, an apple or something but even Parent magazines list of child friendly places to eat are crappy chain resturants.

So what I’m getting at is, where the hell do you go to eat that’s healthy? WHY can’t KIDS MEALS have oh I don’t know, hummus and pita, turkey roll up, and strawberry applesauce? WHY GOD WHY.

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Before I became a parent, there were so many things that I saw other parents do that I SWORE I wouldn’t do when I had a kid of my own.

(Let’s all pause a moment while we laugh collectively.)

One of the “there’s no way in hell I’m doing that” items was: stick to a nap schedule so rigid that our days are planned around when our dear child needs his sleepy time. We laughed, we scoffed, we rolled our eyes at parents who would freak out at 1:04 because their child needed to nap at 1:00 and oh-my-god-we-have-to-get-home-because-precious-Johnny-needs-sleep.

Now, I totally get it. Because missed nap = potential for hellfire and brimstone to rain down upon us all. Those parents were only trying to spare us the agony of witnessing a catastropic event of Biblical proportions. And we had the balls to whisper and laugh behind their backs.

And last weekend, we officially morphed into “those parents.” On Saturday, my husband and I decided to take a drive out to a far suburb for lunch. In a perfectly timed universe, we would’ve left when we were supposed to, eaten lunch and gotten back within a couple hours. In reality, it took like thirty minutes to even get out of the driveway because leaving the house these days resembles a space shuttle launch between the Cheerio baggies, sippy cup pieces, travel wipes containers that always need to be re-filled and all the other crap that goes along with venturing into the outside world.

As we sat down to lunch, I realized it was naptime and started to sweat. I obsessively checked my watch and hovered over my child, convinced he was going to suddenly morph into a rabid, flesh-seeking zombie. Or at least a bratty toddler. But he was fine. (The fact that we let him suck on anything he wanted, including my credit card and a salt shaker, also helped.) We all survived despite a totally screwed up naptime.

I guess the moral of the story is that I should* withold judgement (and laughing, snickering, rolling of the eyes, etc) about other parents, since karma seems to have a pretty good sense of irony.

*”Should” does not mean “will.”

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Your child will learn to use the toilet by himself. We don’t all need to be involved in the process by proxy. He remembers how many accidents he’s had recently, he was there. We don’t want to know.

Using your child’s full name to get his attention when you’re mad at him is just pretentious when you’re mad for like an hour straight. We will never get that asinine middle name out of our heads now.

Your child will understand you if you speak to her in normal conversational tones. There’s no need to be so loud, over-pronounced and, oh for God’s sake please don’t squeal.

Your child does not need a running commentary throughout the day. He can figure out for himself that the little girl is looking at the fishie, and now she’s looking at a book, and that the man is reading a magazine. While we all may seem distracted doing something else, we’re all really just hoping that you’ll shut the hell up soon.

Every moment does not have to be a teaching moment. Because you have a few minutes to kill, you don’t have to yank out a workbook and quiz on letter identification. It won’t get her into Yale any sooner, and the rest of us are not impressed. We already know our letters.

If you want her to take her coat off that badly, then stop asking her over and over and just get hold of her and peel her coat off of her body. You’re bigger than she is.

Again with the middle name. Stop it. I mean it.

It isn’t necessary to bring snacks with you everywhere. They can go a few hours between goldfish and juicebox sessions. See? Now the rest of us are hungry. Did you bring some for everyone?

Just because we happened to reproduce at roughly the same time doesn’t make us friends. Nor our kids.

This job isn’t that hard, you’re really over-applying yourself. It’s OK for everyone to just sit quietly for a while. Pick up a book, take a deep breath, see? It’s all just fine.

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