Allow me to indulge for a moment in a moment of Mama pride: my daughter won 7th in district at the fourth grade level at tonight's Math Bonanza, and top 4th grader at her school. Until that moment when I heard her name I really wasn't thinking about how well she would do or whether she would even place; really, I've just been so tickled about her enthusiasm in going at all. She just likes doing math. And she had such a great time last year. She didn't place, but she felt good about trying her best on some really tough math, got to eat a bunch of pizza, and cheered hard for her classmates. So when she had the opportunity to go back this year, she waved the paper in my face and said, "We're doing this again, right?" It really wasn't even a question.
And it was a terrific night. I fully admit that at 2:10 this afternoon, knowing I still had a meeting of my writing club between school and collecting my children and then we would have just enough time to stop by the house for a quick bathroom break before rushing over to the elementary school that hosts this contest, I really wished I could just come home and put on pajamas at four o'clock and read. But. Isaac gathered his bag of entertainment (over four hours of hanging out in a hot cafeteria is a long time for a five-year-old, and it was a struggle last year) and I washed my face and brushed my teeth, and we headed back out into the afternoon. The sun was beginning to slip behind the trees as we parked, and the air was bitingly cold. The kids slipped their hands into mine, and I relished the moment for exactly that: this sweet little sliver of time when they are little enough to unselfconsciously hold onto me, but big enough to let go and run over to the registration line to greet a friend (Suzannah) or sit alone at a table in a crowded room and color and be just fine (Isaac) while I go buy concessions and chat with my friend and colleague who runs this event.
This year was also lovely because I shamelessly exploited my "VIP" status. I have exactly nothing to do with the execution of this night, but I am lucky enough to call the teacher who runs it my friend and colleague, and the tests are scored by a group of volunteer students from my high school, most of whom I know, many of them whom I've taught over the past couple of years. So when I learned that they'd be arriving for orientation at 4:45 but didn't actually have orientation until 5:15 (high school students need decoy times, just like my husband), I thought I'd go say hi. And then I thought, what if I hang out in the library with my restless son instead of lined up along the wall of the cafeteria? We can spread out on an actual table, and and it's so much cooler. As I walked to the scoring room, an official-looking person asked if I needed any help (which was obvious code for, "Excuse me, but who are you? The sign says no parents or coaches allowed") and I said, "Oh, those are my students in there, and I'm with Mr._________." (Matt was all, "Well, that was shameless.") It was a good move. Isaac had tons of things packed that he could have played with, but he settled into coloring a mandala with gel pens. He is my little artist; he can concentrate for a spectacularly long time on drawing or coloring. (One of the seniors walked by and said, "Man, he's good. I can't color like that and I'm eighteen.") He took breaks to eat popcorn and pizza, but other than that, he was totally absorbed. I tried to read a bit -- math contests are not exactly the most thrilling spectator sports, so I didn't feel badly about not staying in the cafeteria -- but I felt too distracted. I kept watching my students, marveling at the way they were both goofy with each other and serious about their task. I kept watching my son, bent over his paper, absorbed in his coloring. I thought about my daughter, bent over her paper in the cafeteria, her cheeks flushed from the warmth of the room. And I just felt so deeply in love with all of it.
Seeing my kids -- as in, the teenagers I love so much -- spend their Friday night scoring math tests at an elementary school was just about as heart-bursting as watching my own daughter lock into fierce and lovely concentration. Two of these kids in particular made me so crazy as sophomores. I mean this seriously -- not crazy in the fun way, but crazy in the way I feel when teaching actually hurts. I worried about one of them, and I didn't feel like I could help him enough. The other one spent at least a good semester just pissing me off. And now when I see them I feel nothing but pure affection. I feel sure that they will, ultimately, be okay. I laugh with them so easily. I still lecture them, because I still feel they need it and because I think they actually respect me, but mostly I'm just happy when they stop by my room to say hi. I'm going to miss them next year, and if they don't let me know how they're doing, I'm going to think about them, and wonder, and hope.
Sometimes when I tell friends that I'm going to literacy night or math night or science night or family night at the kids' school, I get that sympathetic eye roll. Because we're all tired, and we've taught all day, and the thought of eating terrible pizza in an elementary school cafeteria at five o'clock is not incredibly exciting. It'd be nice to come home and heat up some leftovers instead. Or it'd be nice to toss the kids in the bath and chop vegetables at the kitchen counter while listening to NPR, or really any scenario would be lovely as long as it involves changing into sweats before five o'clock. But they don't need to pity me, even on days when I pity myself, for heaven's sake. Motherhood is often lonely, and some days I am so very aware of the fact that I can't go to happy hour when I really, really want to. But also, this time is golden. It's golden. My children are so happy to be exactly who they are right now, and they seem to just really like school, and they are young enough to really want Matt and me to do these things with them: to show up at their events, and chat with their teachers, and beam. And there is almost nothing as magical as seeing your kid see you beaming at them from their spot in the front of the crowd.
Last year, the week before the contest, she teared up at home when she couldn't make sense of some of the practice problems. (The math skills aren't inherited, but the perfectionism might be.) We talked through that. I told her it's okay that it's hard, that she can do hard things, and that there will be things she doesn't know. Always. This year, she says things like, "I like math best when it's a little bit hard. It's better than when it's too easy." And that grit, right there, that's what makes my heart burst. That's what I hope I can help to teach her (I certainly can't do that on my own), so much more than the actual math.
Matt managed to get home from work in time to make it to the awards part of the night. We crammed into the hot cafeteria and waited, and I fully expected to smile while my girl clapped for her friends. But when I heard her name announced I turned to my husband and saw, I suspect, a mirror of my own face: bursting with happiness and this sweet, shared moment of parental pride. That's our kid up there. Look at her. Just look at her.
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