Next year at this time, The Big Daddy and I will be empty-nesters. No more up and at 'em in the early dawn. No more packing a lunch or signing off on forms we haven't read. No more crazy parking lot of crazy teenage drivers. And no more Back To School Night.
Every year when I join the herd of parents shuffling between classes to meet the teacher, it feels like I'm right back in hell. The Mean Moms are there in their Ralph Lauren attire which stands out nicely against the fake bake. They're joined by Prosperous Dad who pops his collar cuz he makes $200 grand a year, which for some reason makes him think he's made the varsity golf team.
We make our way from class to class, signing in (yes, we love Junior and care about his education) and grab a syllabus. It's always crowded and always hot, unless you luck out and end up in the basement in one of the art rooms where the teacher is cool and the room is cooler.
We went to a French class one year and Madame Teacher was sporting a beard (that doesn't seem very Frenchie) and whoa.........She. Was. A. Battleax. I was so stinking afraid of her that I never moved my head, keeping it perfectly lined up behind the person in front of me. As if my big fat hair wasn't going to out me. When she asked if there were any questions, I wanted to raise my hand, but I was so afraid of her that I sat there with a stupid grin on my face, nodding like I just got off the short bus.
Back to school night. Just like back in the day, but, mercifully, only two hours long.