All the lights are shining, so brightly everywhere, and the sound of children's laughter fills the air. . . .

December 16, 2010



Now that I have finished teaching, the panic that normally ensues each and every morning in my attempt to get Emily to school on time has vanished.

Meaning Em is late for school.

But that isn't my problem.

I still get her up at 6.00 am, and get her up again at 6.30 and then start reminding her of the time by 8.00 am, but other than that, she's on her own.

Which is the reason it is now 8.27 and she still isn't ready to go.

But I am.

Zebra stripped flannel jammies and all.






Some mornings she does make the attempt to be on time.

Yesterday for example.

I return home, settle in at the kitchen table with my sharpened pencils, stacks of paper and jazz via cbc online, when I get a phone call.

Screening phone calls is a must.

And then I hear,

"MUM! I know you're there! Answer the phone, it's an EMERGENCY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Who could resist?

And an emergency it was, indeed.

Em was presenting her Bollywood project in her World Music class.

She remembered everything, including our dvd of Slumdog Millionaire.

Or, rather, the dvd case for Slumdog Millionaire.

The actual dvd was still in my laptop because she was watching it the other evening.

After she explains her trauma to me, I ask her one important question:

"Do I have to put pants on?"

Em: Yes Mum. I can't come out to the car. You have to bring it to me.

Translation: Mum, don't you even THINK of coming in here, to my highschool, where I fight for purchase in a hormonally charged jungle of fads and one-up-man-ship, where every day my life in on  the social ladder line and I am just barely able to maintain my position as sort of cool kid who seems a little offputting, and all my hard work will be for naught if YOU show up to my CLASSROOM wearing your zebra striped flannel pajamas!

Pants it was then.

Again, I haul myself out of the house to take Em her dvd.

And when I get there, she is happy to see me, or, more likely, happy to see that I was indeed wearing pants, AND I had brushed my hair.

Some of her friends, the ones I've been allowed to meet, are in this class, so as soon as my face shows up in the window, they start waving.

I bet they would have thought my zebra striped flannel jammies were cool.





When I walked into the music hallway of FHS to give Em her dvd I was greeted with an unusal sight.

Scads of elementary school children lined up in the music hallway.

Seeing my puzzled look, a teacher walks by and says, "Preistman Street Christmas concert rehersals.

Ah.

Yes.

I remember those days.

The elementary school Christmas concerts.

A highlight of every Christmas season.

With three children, I have attended many a Christmas concert.

Leaving work early, or finding someone to cover an exam, only to arrive with a 10 km vicinity of the school because there was never any parking.

I swear there were mothers who, at 8.30, dropped their kids off to the classroom and then just went to the gym to ensure front row seats.

Not me.

By the time I got there, I usually had to stand in the back because there were no seats left.

There may have been a couple of times, before Em started school, when I arrived early enough to get a seat.

Only to have to try and explain to Em, again, how come she couldn't go to school.

Now I spend my morning explaining to her how come she has to go to school.

Meredyth was always entertaining when she found herself on stage.

She LOVED it.

Her first Christmas concert was actually when she attend a pre-school a couple of days a week when we lived in Hamilton.

All dressed up, red velvet dress, white tights, black Mary Janes, she's on the stage singing her little heart out, when, mid song she jumps off the stage, runs over to me and her grandmother and announces to all in her loudest outdoor voice that she has to POOP. NOW!

Another year, after we moved back to Fredericton and she was in elementary school, right after the class had finished their song, the boy beside Meredyth leaned over to kiss her.

She promptly pushed him off the stage.

In front of the entire audience.

He was the son of my professor at the time.

I had this professor every morning, 5 days a week, at 8.30.

We never spoke of it.




Keith was interesting.

He didn't like at all the idea of getting on stage in front of a bunch of parents to stand still, let alone sing anything.

All the children would come onto the stage, take their place, smile and wave at their parents, who were smiling at waving from the audience to let their child know that yes, they were there, in case there were any questions later. . .

. . .and Keith stood there, rock still.

Terrified.

He acknowledged me with a weak smile and an almost imperceptible wave.

As if he feared forgetting the entire reason he was out there had he done anything more.

Anything that would have broken his concentration.

I swear I could see a sheen of sweat glistening on his upper lip.

And that was just when he had to go out, stand still, and sing.

The year he had to go out there wearing the apron I had paid a classmate to make for me for grade 8 Home Ec, the blue apron with the small pink and yellow flowers no less, just about caused him to become catatonic.

But the best was his last year in elementary school.

He had a wonderful, energetic, charismatic teacher, who made Keith do something I was never able to get Keith to do.

And still can't.

Unless he is under the influence.

He had to dance.

And sing.

At the same time.

He was virtually apoplectic in the days leading up to this performance.

But when he came out on stage, he looked straight at his teacher, never breaking eye contact, until the entire charade was over and he was able to leave the gym.

He spent the remainder of the day sitting in his desk, rocking back and forth muttering, "I can't believe he made me dance. I can't believe he made me dance" over and over again.

This went on for a couple of days until he snapped out of it, and proclaimed he would NEVER engage in such activities again.

Hmmmm. . . .he should have added until he was 19 and attending parties at university residences.




Emily never shared Meredyth's enthusiasm for, nor Keith's fear of the Christmas concert.

She just plain didn't want to do
And couldn't understand how come she had to if she didn't want to.

And much like her one and only Bonnie Kilburn dance recital, she would stand on stage, singing, and looking as pissed off about the entire thing as she possibly could.

All the other kids were smiles and waves, but Em stood on that stage as stiff as a board.

She would give me the "You have no idea how pissed off I am about being up here, again" wave, do her schtick and get out of there.

She never wanted to dress up.

In fact, she would actively scheme to wear her oldest, rattiest looking play clothes.

Until I intervened and said she either dressed nicely on her own, or I would dress her nicely.

And I believe she, too, had to wear the blue apron with the pink and yellow flowers.

But I don't think it scarred her as much as it did Keith.




I still carry the battle scars of the elementary school Christmas concerts.

And miss going to them.

Very much.

When I mentioned to the kids that maybe I would go to one, they said that would be creepy given that I have no children of my own performing.

Like stalker creepy.

But I miss the kindergarteners.

Free and unsure of what they're doing.

Watching the teacher attempt to just get them in their spots is a little like sheep herding.

And you never know when one of them is going to burst into tears, push someone off the stage, or, my favourite, the one kid who doesn't so much sing as scream at the top of his or her lungs.

Ahhhh, memories. . .





Title Lyric: All I Want for Christmas by Mariah Carey