School Daze

I picked up my daughter, S, from elementary school the other day, and after she settled into her seat and took control of the radio, I asked her how the day went.

It is a ritual we have, one from which I should break free but always forget somehow when I see her face as she approaches the car. I know how the day went from the look upon her face, so asking her is superfluous. I should try a more focused but open ended approach, like what’s the weirdest thing that happened in the cafeteria, or who cried today in class. If I see a frown when she opens the door, though, I ask anyway, how was your day? She provides only two answers to this question: good or okay. Okay means that before we pull into the driveway, she will be crying, pushed to her breaking point by the struggles and tribulations of fifth grade.

Lucky, the other day she approached the car with a big smile on her face. “Good day, I see,” I said to her.

“Someone got married to a chocolate chip today at recess,” she said, and giggled.

“Did you say chocolate chip?” I asked.

“Yes, a fourth grade girl. It was a really big deal. She had been planning it all week.”

So many questions. Where to begin?

“Why was there a chocolate chip on the playground?” I asked. It seemed like a good place to start.

“She brought it from home. Some of the girls in her class were even bridesmaids. She wore a really fancy dress even.”

Did this child’s mother wonder why she was so dressed up for school? Oh wait, it was picture day. Duh. Clever move, bride of chocolate chip.

“Well, um, was it a beautiful ceremony?”

“It was lovely,” she said, smiling. “But the fourth grade boys made fun of her and made her cry.”

“I could see how a group of boys would tease her about that,” I commented.

“Wait, it gets worse. One of the boys ate her chocolate chip.”

“He ate her husband? That’s horrible, I guess. Was he tasty?”

S giggled. “But the girl was all upset.”

I liked how she didn’t use the girl’s name, as if to protect her anonymity.

“I’m sure she was. That was a very short marriage. Plus, she’s awfully young to be a widow.”

“Yeah, she cried and all the other girls yelled at the boy and then their teacher came over.”

“Well, what did she say?”

“The girl told her about the wedding and the boy eating a chocolate chip, but she said she didn’t even know how to punish him for that. So they all kind of walked away.”

“That’s a pretty weird story,” I told her. “Anything else interesting happen? Did you start a new unit in social studies?”

“Yes,” she said. “We are learning about the Dirty Thirties.”

I choked on my own spit. “Excuse me?”

“The Dirty Thirties. You know, the Great Depression, and the Dust Bowl and stuff. That must be why they call it that,” she said.

I had to Google the Dirty Thirties when we got home. I didn’t believe that was a common expression that should be taught to elementary school children. But it turns out I was wrong. It might be Ken Burns’ fault; his documentary on the Dust Bowl referred to that time period as such, even though I and most people would think it was more about finding a way to make getting older sound sexier. But still, when S said it, I saw it more as “Drrrrty” and less about dust clouds. At least she didn’t say she was learning about cougars or twinks or trannies or anything.

Wait a minute, she did learn about “tran,” when she had a unit on stems in her reading class. When she studied all the stems, she wanted me to give examples of the stems in words. I kept forgetting she was more familiar with “transcontinental” than she was with “transsexual.” I did my best to contain myself.  I don’t do much better when they cover the solar system. Is there an adult alive who doesn’t at least smile inside when they talk about Uranus?

I’m going to miss the elementary school years. Next year, S will be in middle school, and her innocence will be figuratively stripped from her. She will know all the bad words and see some shit go down. Hell, she will see a police officer every day, one with a real gun who isn’t afraid to use it. She will see kids fight and cuss and make out and all the things I still can’t believe go on in a school in a nice area of town. So if the whole damn fourth grade wants to marry chocolate chips, I will be more than happy to drop off a bag of Nestle Chocolate Morsels. I’ll even throw in a case of Sugar Babies so they can all start families.

Dirty Thirties. Sheesh. Make this growing up thing slow down.