Yep. You read that right. Apparently, in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, if your kid is “truant” you- the parent- will be punished.

The warning was sent out in July about an increased focus on truancy in East Baton Rouge Parish, but the crackdown officially began this week as three tickets were issued to the parents of kids who failed to report to school during the first half of the school year.

Local D. A. explains: “…his office will prosecute the parents of students with more than five unexcused absences” and that “The parents face fines or up to six months in jail.”

I realize truancy is a misdemeanor in LA, but I’m thinking this could be handled another way. Why should the parents be prosecuted and fined-with possible jail time? Isn’t there a better way to handle this? Not to mention better ways to spend tax payers money.

If this kind of logic were applied to myself in my high school years, we’d probably be bankrupt and be serving 20 years for all the school I missed.

This morning we had parent/teacher interviews with both the girls’ teachers. I wont reveal the details of the discussions obviously but I will say that there is an issue with one of our children that is of some concern and we will be monitoring things closely, as will her teacher.

One of our kids is not playing nicely with some of her fellow students. She is doing well academically, but there are some shenanigans going on during the recess and lunch breaks that need to be addressed quickly.

My younger brother struggled to get along with some of his peers, and his troubles were exacerbated by a general lack of interest in school and a sometimes difficult relationship with his teachers (who were not at all curious about why he might not like school so they just stuck him in the corner and told him to be quiet… thank goodness modern education allows for different learning styles in students… but I digress).

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Today is my kids’ last day of school. Just the thought of summer break strikes a crippling fear in my heart and now, it is on my doorstep, ringing the doorbell. “I’m not home! Go away!” I’m yelling from under my blanket of denial, but he refuses to leave. I know that I have to open the damn door. I know it. I just cannot bring myself to leave the comfort that has been my denial for the past few days.

I have all of the teacher’s gifts, wrapped and ready to give. It is my last ditch effort to plead with them to take my kids home for the summer. My second grader’s teacher asked if we would keep the class pet, a frog, for the summer. I offered her an even trade…the frog for the second grader. She laughed. I didn’t. Maybe nobody will notice if I forget to pick up the kids after school today. Maybe I can bribe the custodian to lock them in the utility closet for ten weeks. Maybe I can pay her to slide some food and water under the door, so they survive. Maybe I can find a mission trip to send the kids on. What better way to spend the summer than learning about how good life really is in the United States? So they risk Malaria and other unpleasant side effects of third world visitation, it is all part of the experience, right? With great rewards, come great risks!

Okay, so I sound a little desperate. I am. The little beasts were off of school for one extra day, last week. Our house and my temper suffered greatly, that day. They “accidentally” spilled a smoothie in the cable box and broke it. They “accidentally” rode their scooters in the house and made several gouges in the wall, before I caught them. They “accidentally” poured a bottle of baby shampoo all over the bathroom floor, to clean up the ink pen that “accidentally” broke and splatter painted the floor a lovely shade of midnight. They “accidentally” killed my last shred of sanity. I’m not sure how I’m going to avoid being the next “Parent Gone Mad, Drowns Her Children” news headline, but something has to be figured out. I decided to seek out divine intervention, yesterday. I emailed my husband’s uncle, who is a priest, to seek some advice. I kid you not, this was our correspondence:

“Hi Uncle John. How are you? We are fine. The kids will be out of school on Friday. I’m a little scared. It makes me wonder how your sister (my mother in law) survived summer break with 13 kids! Any guidance that you can offer me? Love, Kadi”

“Dear Kadi, I am doing well. Find a summer program for the kids…quickly. Love, Fr. (uncle) John”

I was expecting some words of wisdom, a prayer, a novena, or even a suggestion of exorcism. Nope. He told me to find a place to shove my kids for the summer. Even the priest knows I’m doomed. I’m heading to the store now, to buy a lot of Mr. Clean Magic Erasers, Clorox Wipes, duct tape, rope, Lexapro and other survival essentials. Then, I’m going to schedule some weekly phone “confessions” with Uncle John, because I’m going to need some major absolution of sin, for the next ten weeks! Now, how am I going to leave the house, without opening the door for the grim reaper who is still lurking on my stoop?

Now is the time of year when all the bold, bright colors seem to spring up – overnight. No, not spring flowers, I’m talking fundraising forms. “Please give” they all say - give time to sell; give money outright; give us your grandmother’s bank account and we’ll just empty that for you. It’s all “for the kids” after all.

Yesterday alone my children trucked off to school with no less than $40 in “mad money” (as in my money and I’m still a little bit mad about having to part with it) to attend a charitable fundraiser at school. Sure, I’m all for saving the whales who suffer from diabetes or what have you, but at some point something’s got to give.

I am not a hard-hearted soul. I’m as for (or against) whatever cause is up for discussion as the next person. I’m for new playground equipment, basketballs, and paving stones and against cancer, diabetes, natural disasters, and gift wrap.

What I don’t get is how our nation’s children have been drafted as the next major workforce of volunteer salespeople and nobody but curmudgeons like me seems to care.

They keep telling me that schoolchildren have barely enough time in the academic day to have one recess, let alone the three I routinely had when attending grade school. Today children wolf down lunch in twenty minutes or less (with 19 of them spent standing in line waiting to buy). Our school has even cut out keyboarding because time is so tight (computers? Who needs ‘em? I’m sure that’s just a passing fad).

Ironically, they have no END of time to take my children out of class, herd them into the auditorium, and fill their impressionable heads with visions of the riches ranging from personal mp3 players to scooters to be had if only they can convince mom and dad to sell 10,000 units to coworkers, family, and friends.

I have taken a firm “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy when it comes to fundraising among family members. You don’t scratch at my door with your scented candles and discount cards and I won’t scratch on yours. Still the fundraisers keep on coming.

Who knows, maybe it’s just sour grapes? Unless all you blog readers are interested in buying oranges, candy bars, and “World’s Best Grandma” plaques from me online, I don’t see this mommy making much headway in selling at work.

Utimately, I’m all about helping America’s youth. I’m just not convinced they should all be pushed toward a third grade future in sales.

I do not understand the yellers. The people who cannot live another moment unless they tell you just how badly you just fucked up. I really don’t get it.

I’ve been the recipient of yelling on two occasions recently, and yes, I readily take the blame for having erred. Once was at the very first Academic Triathlon meet that I’ve ever hosted for our school. I was supposed to read the scene for the P.A.R.T.Y in a Box for the audience before the first team performed, and I forgot. I realized as soon as they started and planned to go up and apologize and read the scene after they were done. It was MY team, so it wasn’t like this was causing some unfair disadvantage to anyone else. In the 5 minutes they were performing, something like eight people came up to me—stood in line behind each other—to tell me that I was supposed to read the scene before they started. I cannot even fathom standing in a line and hearing several people ahead of you say exactly the same thing you intend to say and still go through with it. Really, what did they expect me to do about it at that point? To make it worse, three people called me at home the week following the event to tell me that I should have read the scene before the kids performed. How do you respond to something like that?

The second incident was just yesterday. The car in front of me turned the corner to get in the line in front of the school to pick up the kids. Then it was my turn and as I turned the corner, I realized that the cars weren’t moving up as much as I anticipated they would. I had misjudged the amount of space available and part of my car would be in the crosswalk, but I couldn’t put my car in reverse back around the corner. I was pretty well committed to this awkward situation. I’ve seen it happen to other people. It’s not always easy to gauge from around the corner how much room there is, but since the line behind you extends out into another intersection down the street, you want to scoot up and keep things tight. I’ve also seen cars honking at people who are waiting for adequate room around the corner and aren’t turning when the people behind them think they should. It’s a high-emotion corner. I’ve never been honked before. Truth be told, my daughter prefers that I get there later so she can hang out with her friends, so there usually isn’t even much of a line by the time I get there, which is fine by me because this whole situation seems to turn grown ups into a bunch of squabbling idiots. Anyway, so once in a while, somebody misjudges the available space and their ass is blocking the crosswalk. Yesterday, it was mine. One kid approached the crosswalk while I was left dangling out in it, and he had to wait about 90 seconds for the line in front of me to move so I could scoot up out of his way. In that 90 seconds, a woman stopped at the stop sign coming the other way rolled down her window and made angry arm gestures at me. I made a “What?” gesture myself and she shouted, “What’s the matter with you? There are KIDS trying to cross the street!” and continued with the huffy arm movements and scowling face as though this was the worst offense against humanity she’d ever witnessed. OK, yes, I did in fact screw up. In the years of picking my kid up at that school, this is the first time I’ve misjudged the space, and I’ll be careful to not do it again. But, what exactly would she have me do about it right then? Her yelling at me actually delayed the child’s progress home by a few seconds because I was distracted by her when the car in front of me moved up and I could get my tail end out of the crosswalk.

I don’t understand the yelling. Is it that people need to be so right all the time that they just can’t stop themselves from pointing out someone else’s error? Even if a bunch of people already have? Even if pointing it out will do nothing to change what’s happening now? I obviously figured out the P.A.R.T.Y in a Box thing and fixed it at the first opportunity. The car situation is bigger than my little error yesterday, but it might serve everyone better if a long-term solution is proposed to the board, rather than just continuing to honk and shout at each other at the street corners. As for me, I’ll try to just avoid it by getting there after the line is gone.

But, the thing I really don’t understand, is what I asked before … how do you respond to people when they do this? Not just at the moment, but later, when you have to see them again? I may have committed an unforgivable offense, the lore destined to passed orally from coach to coach through the rest of time when I forgot to read the scene from the P.A.R.T.Y in a Box at the January 11th Round Robin, but all those people who lined up to alert me of my fuck up again, and again, and again and then called me at home to make sure I knew I fucked up? I’ll never be able to look at them like they’re normal human beings again. I feel like Mel Gibson in Signs, pointing these people out to my kids and saying, “See that lady? I don’t any of you spending any time with that lady alone. Understand?” Because what kind of people DO this? The lady in the car yesterday, what am I supposed to say to her when I bump into her at some pot luck? My husband suggested I ask if she’s over it yet. She won’t have a clue as to what I’m talking about because she probably goes around yelling at everyone for everything and my most horrible crime against children there at the crosswalk will be long forgotten. But, I won’t forget her. Her twisted face looking comically demonic from behind the windshield, her wild arms gesturing violently through the SUV’s open window. The scene has been burned into my brain forever. The honkers are no better. How do they greet each other at the soccer games after they’ve just been mechanically screaming at each other day in, day out? We have to live together on this planet. We have to do our best to make our way through interactions with each other. There will be bumps. There will be accidents. Mistakes will be made and corrected. I know I am embarrassed when I screw up, but I’d be even more embarrassed to make such an ass out of myself rushing to point out someone else’s screw up. To err is human, to have a big screaming hissy fit about it is just stupid.