Tomorrow is the Last Day

After 13 years in the Montclair Public School system, tomorrow is the last day Figgy will be a student. It feels monumental. I plan to bring plenty of tissues to graduation in the amphitheatre.

Here are the things we will never again do:

• Get snow-day phone calls at ungodly hours, in the dark. On snowy days in particular, with the hush of whiteness all around, one likes to stay buried under the covers.
• Buy school supplies at Staples in Cedar Grove based on the lists her teachers give her and marvel at how much we spend every year.
• Sit down with MHS guidance counselor Ms. Clarke to plan Figgy's future and help her find her way.
• Bake for the second grade class, Bradford Field Day, school Thanksgiving feasts, the Scholastic Book Fair Teachers' Tea, holiday parties, teachers' gifts, the Project Graduation fundraiser or Teacher Appreciation Day [well, I will still have close friends with kids in the schools, so technically, I could....]
• Base our vacation plans on the Montclair public school system calendar.
• Get stuck in schoolday morning rush hour at the horrible turn where Park Street intersects Watchung Avenue.
• Witness the ceremony of the annual school photo. First dressing my little kindergartner Fig in a denim jumper then, as the years went on, watching her edit down her choices to the perfect outfit and hair acccessory.
• Make a lunch Fig will take to a school in Montclair. Years and years and years of love notes from me or H. [depending on whose turn it was]. Endless days of peanut butter sandwiches, turkey on whole wheat, Granny Smith apples, little cups of applesauce, mozzarella sticks and fruit leathers.
• Write sick notes. Dear Montclair High School Teachers, Please excuse Figgy's absence yesterday. She was sick to her stomach and we let her stay home and rest. She will make up any work she missed. Thank you. Sincerely, Alice Hurley
• Rationalize that our astronomical property taxes are paying for our child's education.
• Get a million school emails, on subjects ranging from dress code updates [no strapless dresses] to a warning about a strange man who approached a student from his car near school property.
• Take dreaded calls from the nurse's office in a Montclair school--to tell us [usually me] about a stomach ache, a fever, an eye infection, cramps. Or worse. And then end the call feeling inadequate, irresponsible, angry, frustrated or just plain scared.
• Have to worry about being at pickup precisely on time--and jockeying for a parking space that isn't blocking a driveway. 
• Say to my Sug, "Do you want to go get Fig Caroline from school?" and watch her leap off the couch, black eyes shining, ready to weather sleet, snow, rain or blistering heat so she could ride shotgun and stand up eagerly on the passenger seat, looking out the window for Fig to emerge from the school. 
• Have my little girl come out the school door and in that first moment, take a reading of her eyes, her posture, the way she carries her backpack. Seeking in those seconds to know if she had a happy day or a hard one. Wondering if someone hurt her feelings, invited her to their party, said they liked her sweater, excluded her on the monkey bars, stole her heart or said they loved her. Wondering if someone--anyone--saw the magnificent girl I sent in.
• Be cajoled into play dates, car rides, mall trips, A.C. Moore excursions, QuickChek or Starbucks stops and bank runs on the way home from school.
• Have our working-at-home-as-writers schedules come to a natural halt or break when school lets out. Darn, that's about to go. Now we can work straight through to 5. No one will need a ride.

That's all I can think of now, at 11:34 P.M. Ready for bed. Good night.

TCOY 

1. Reached out for support.
2. Private Benjamin.
3. Watered and weeded a little despite the sweltering heat.
4. Ate some watermelon and drank lots of ice water and cold seltzer.