While writing fiction is not my sweet spot, I do have something of a soft spot for it. I’m pretty sure anybody who has ever put pen to paper has had at least some small aspiration to write the next Great American Novel, and I’ve always wanted to write a screen play. While I’ve not yet started a novel, I have worked on some short fiction from time to time. I recently entered a story into a local competition, and while it wasn’t selected as a finalist by the judges, I want to get it out there for be the people.

Isn’t the people who writing should really be for any? Any creation should never be made for the critics. Though I did get some positive feedback from one of the judges – “What a gift you have for writing! Your story is funny, sort of sad, snappy, and just a good time!…I was really enjoying reading it when I hit the cheese section and couldn’t stop laughing. Brava!”

That’s right folks, come for the short-form fiction, stay for the cheese puns. Safe to the say the other judges don’t share my sense of humor. Anyway, I present to you my story – enjoy.

Scenes from a Private School Pick-Up Line

The only other place I’d see so many white luxury SUVs in one place is a dealership lot. Come to find out, the official vehicle of the at least moderately affluent suburban mom is a white GMC Yukon Denali. Or Chevy Suburban. Or Grand Wagoneer. It seems the make and model can change, but the color is a must. Red SUVs are for the nouveau riche. Black SUVs are for the common rabble. I’ve yet to see a car with a piece rusted off or one door that is a different color than the others. I suspect I never will. Silver minivans are society’s lowest common denominator. Some drive them out of necessity, some in a millionaire next door kind of way. My van is necessary.

As is my child’s attendance at private pre-school. Two working parents require a five days-a-week, all day childcare option. Just my luck it also happens to be the most expensive option in town. I try not to think about working only to pay for somebody to take care of my child while I’m working. The math only makes sense if you don’t think about it. The school does offer financial aid, but we don’t qualify. We make too much money. Maybe one of us should quit our jobs after all? I get the feeling that not all the other parents in the pick-up line made the decision to send their kid here based on the same determining factors. This is a tradition crowd. A downright legacy crowd. They look forward to thirteen more years of an exclusively priced education. I’m counting down the days of working to pay more for preschool than I do for my mortgage. Their interest is compounding, my interests are confounding.

I can’t help but notice the other parents here match their vehicles. White suburban luxury. A women whose athleisure wardrobe implies that she came right from yoga class but hair and nails that indicate she came right from the salon to pick up her equally Lululemon-clad children. I get the sense that her life is more leisure than ath. The children are active, of course. Travel baseball, hockey, lacrosse, competitive cheer, a mix of anything that requires expensive equipment and league fees. Though what are league fees when the team is sponsored by the business one of the parents owns? A tax write off, that’s what. Junior gets a new uniform and senior gets a loophole. 

Sometimes I’ll catch parts of conversations between another parent and whoever is on the other end of their newest iPhone.

“I reserved a boat for the Bahamas.” Of course she did.
“Grandpa is going to meet us at the club for dinner later.” That sounds lovely.
“No, we won’t be home. We’re going to the cabin this weekend.” Why wouldn’t you?

Occasionally there is a woman who pulls up in a Mercedes Benz G Wagon. In the nicest possible way, I hope our kids don’t end up becoming friends. I don’t think I could take it. I am sure she is a very nice person, which actually makes it worse. It would be much easier to be ok with feeling out of place if the place was filled with careless people. However, I get the sense that these people actually care a great deal. Except for maybe the guy who drives a Cybertruck. I have to assume he is the actual worst. The rest of these people donate to charities and they sit on boards of non-profits. I bet they even respond to the school’s requests for donations with checks, where as I respond with wondering why they are asking for more money if I already pay tuition. First they eat my lunch then they ask me if I’m going to finish my crumbs. Perhaps that is why I’ll never have a library or gym named after me.

It isn’t all white suburban moms in white Suburbans, there are a few dads sprinkled in. Taking time to pick up their kids as their commitments to mastering the universe allows. There is a father who is always in a suit, but somehow never looks out of place. He belongs, and he belongs in a suit. He stands out from the other fathers, most of whom are in the unofficial uniform of the backbone of suburbia – a corporate logo emblazoned polo shirt, uncomfortable looking khakis, and expensive looking shoes. The modern man’s gray flannel suit. In addition to a cabin near a lake somewhere, these men possess a certain everyman quality. They barbeque and they drink in their backyards, it is just that they grill grass-fed steaks and drink expensive bourbon. Though to maintain their relatability, they’ll tell you they didn’t actually buy the steaks. The steaks were a corporate gift from one of their company’s vendors. Logo polo men take care of their own.

If the American public school system is a melting pot, private school is a fondue pot. A carefully curated, artisanally crafted, and delicately blended flavor. Organic goat cheese folded in with aged cheddar. French brie melted together with Swiss emmentaler. Queso blanco adds a little excitement to the palate. Afterall, they do have a Spanish immersion program. However, this is no place for a Kraft single.

And what am I? A block of store-brand cheese, sliced and placed out before company arrives so the wrapper can be discarded and its origin obscured. The best I can do is try to present the best I can, but my kid’s hand-me-down pants that are at least an inch too short and visibly worn through in the knees give us away. Now I feel more like a hardened rind left behind after the best part has been grated away.

Watching the kids bounce out of school into their lines waiting to be picked up does bring me hope. They are all mostly the same. Little bodies filled with energy and cheeks filled with pudge. The other little kids don’t seem to care that the threads of my kid’s pants are hanging on for dear life, or that we’ll head home in a vehicle that doesn’t have any HD screens inside. Maybe my kid actually belongs here. Maybe my kid will exist inside their sphere of influence, even if I never will. When my kid stands among their classmates, they stand with friends. When I stand among their parents, I stand alone.

Oh look, a Porsche

I think I may have under-estimated my kids. One thing I (and probably a lot of parents) worry about when their kids to go school, is if and how they’ll make friends. Or even worse, if they’ll get picked on. Much to my delight, it seems my kids have had no problem making friends. Whenever I see my kids around other kids, its been a pretty limited and un-natural sample of birthday parties and organized play dates. However, after seeing them in a more natual setting at some school events I now have to ask myself – are my kids popular?

My son Brooks is in pre-school, and they had a “donuts with dad” breakfast. Walking into his school with him felt like I was walking into Cheers with Norm. As soon as we entered the building teachers and other people who worked at the school were thrilled to see him. Which I get, he’s a neat little guy. But these weren’t even his teachers. Pretty sure at no point in my academic career did any teacher who wasn’t my own give me any kind of enthusiastic greeting, or even know my name for that matter. My other brother had a few teachers before I had them, so at most I got a few “Mr. Kose” acknowlegements because they knew we were related, but my son walks down the hall and is getting high-fives all the way like its a basketball team intoduction. “At 3 feet, 6 inches, from NorthPointe Pre-School 4’s – at power forward it’s Brooooooooooooooks!!!!”

Recognition from teachers is one thing, but of course popularity comes from recognition of your peers. The other day while I was picking him up, a little girl ran up and gave him a hug and said bye. If that’s not the definition of popularity, then I don’t know what is.

The same holds true for my daughters. Just this morning while I was dropping them off at school a girl ran up and gave my daughter a hug with an enthusiastic “Hi hi hi!” (Not a typo, there where that many hi’s.) My daughter was neither caught off guard nor taken aback by this up close and personal greeting on a random Wednesday morning. As if it wasn’t actually random at all, but a normal occurrence. I don’t think I’ve ever been greeted with that kind of warmth and enthusiasm by a friend on my birthday, let alone your run of mill weekday. Honestly, if I was I would probably be weirded out by it. But my daughter was not weirded. It was like getting hugged by your peers upon arrival at school was the most natural thing in the world.

I didn’t know that girl, maybe she’s just a hugger, but I do know my girl. Not to say that my girl isn’t the most huggable kid in the world. I give her plenty. But if I wasn’t her dad I don’t think I’d feel compelled to greet her when she entered school with a warm embrace and multiple greetings. I mean, she’s nice, but she’s not Dolly Parton.

This wasn’t the first time I’ve seen this though. Every time I pick up or drop off my kids it seems like somebody is coming over to give them a hug or shouting hi or bye at them from across the parking lot, as if their school day wasn’t complete until the departure of my child is acknowledged. I get that kids are generally much more open and friendly than grown ups, but even for kids this feels a little excessive, does it not? I don’t ever remember anybody going out of their way to greet me or bid me farewell at school. Maybe because I’m a boy and all my friends were boys? Not sure if that holds true based on hte fanfare my son receives. Was I a dick when I was a kid? Were my friends dicks? Did I actually have friends? Or was I just surrounded by kids who became accustomed to me over the years?

Perhaps it is the school environments they are in. I went to Catholic schools all my life. We were a shirt and tie wearing, standing quietly in line kind of crowd. Not so much a run over and give kids in my class a hug before we walk in the building kind of group. Was my elementary school existence inherently more reserved? Perhaps. Or, and I don’t know why but this one feels like more of a stretch – maybe my kids really are popular?

My younger daughter was recently elected to a leadership position. She was voted to be leader of “The Kitty Crew.” Not quite class president, but for the first grade being voted to be in charge of a recess play group is pretty prestigious. Her election was legit too. When I asked her who she voted for, she didn’t even vote for herself. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times – that little peanut is all class.

Earlier when I said “Much to my delight, it seems my kids have had no problem making friends,” I almost typed “much to my surprise.” I don’t know why I was so disappointed with myself that my first reaction would to be surprised that other kids like my kids. But the more I thought about it, it makes sense. The version of my kids that I see everyday is not the same version of my kids that their friends at school get. I see the kids that don’t clean their rooms until we threaten to throw it all in a garbage bag, that fight with each other over who gets to use what color cup, that use all the tape, literally all the tape, that make each other cry simply because they know how to. I see the real them. And yes, sometimes it is surprising that somebody who didn’t create them could be so happy to see them.

Though I suppose I’m glad they take a different, more socially appropriate version of themselves to school. Kids are going to be misbehaving gross little weirdos, and I’d rather they be that way at home than in public. So I don’t know if I’d say my kids are popular, but they are likable, which I think will serve them better in the long run. Popular is fleeting, likability sticks.

Sometimes I wonder if I am raising good people. Not just good kids that listen or eat their carrots, but good people. My wife has gotten the into the habit of doing “Kindness Wednesday”, where they’ll do something nice for somebody. That usually ends up with them getting some kind of treat for their teachers or for me. I’ll absolutely take a latte and a donut, but we’ve started to question if they are really understanding the purpose of doing kind things beyond just buying something for them. Especially since they aren’t spending their own money on it. Yes, gift giving is a good way to show kindness, and might even be their love language, but I also want them to know that their words and actions are just as important for being kind.

I often question if that is sinking in. I know that brothers and sisters will fight, but sometimes they are just flat out jerks to each other. I suppose it’s a small feather in our parental caps that we’ve instilled the lesson that you don’t hit, otherwise I’m shocked they don’t haul off and punch each other in the face more often. Not that I’d condone it, but the way they treat each other sometimes, they’d have it coming. But every once in a while, I get a glimpse of them being genuinely good people. The other day I witnessed what might be my proudest moment as a parent. My kids showed sincere concern, empathy, kindness, and perhaps most importantly, comedic aptitude.

Here’s the scene. Lucy, my oldest daughter, is going to need braces but needed to get an expander first. If you’re unfamiliar with what an expander is, good for you. It is what seems to be a holdover from medieval dental practices in which pieces of metal are put in a child’s mouth to push and form the top of the mouth. I’m told this will create the room needed for her adult teeth to grow in properly. We can use a laser and robot to perform heart surgery, but we’re still solving dental issues by shoving metal into kids’ mouths. What, no leeches for a cavity? C’mon dental world, get with the times. Anyway, getting an expander put in is about as comfortable as it sounds, and of Lucy’s many positive traits, a tolerance for pain (or even mild discomfort really) isn’t one of them.

Between the pain and just not being used to having this contraption in her mouth, for the first few days eating was an absolute nightmare. The novelty of pudding for dinner quickly wore off, and when she was unable to eat tacos (her favorite food) on Taco Tuesday, it was just too much for her. Total meltdown. And I get it, my heart went out to her. Having to sit and watch your family eat your favorite food while trying to muster the fortitude to down some applesauce is an absolutely miserable experience. Unaided by the fact that Evie, her little sister, is very quick to point out all the things on the table that she can’t eat. Again, a small victory that Evie’s passive aggressive feigned ignorance of questioning of “Dad, what will Lucy eat because she can’t have tacos?” wasn’t met with a knuckle sandwich.

Lucy left the table and went into another room to curl up with a blanket and pout. Better to cry alone than watch other people eat tacos. During the rest of dinner I think it really sunk in with Evie and her little brother, Brooks, that their sister wasn’t just in a bad mood (something they are used to dealing with and shrugging off), but genuinely in pain and sad. Right after dinner the younger two went to join their sister in the other room, and after a few minutes I could hear laughter. I looked in on them and saw Evie and Brooks taking pratfalls off a chair to make Lucy laugh. With every thud on the floor and giggle from their faces, I was filled a little more with pride.

Obviously, it was very sweet of them to want to cheer up their sister, but I was also very proud of them using their own brand of humor to do it. They didn’t go in and put on her favorite TV show, they took it up on themselves to deliver the laughs with a live performance. And going right for the physical comedy too. Not any little kid knock-knock jokes or butchered punchlines about why something crossed the road, just timeless, class physical comedy. No audience participation from a kid who can barely talk, just have her sit back and enjoy watching two kids fall down repeatedly. Excellent job reading the room.

They also played to the strengths of their team. I have to say, Evie is legit funny. She has great comedic timing, and not just for a 6 year-old, but for anybody. She knows when to take a beat before saying something, she knows when just a look of side-eye or crooked grin will resonate, and she knows how to deliver a dry, understated line. Hard to call a kid who we still need to remind to put on pants when she’s walking around the house a straight-man, but the potential is there. Especially compared to her partner. Brooks is a 4 year-old boy, which pretty much tells you all you need to know about his sense of humor. Right now his go-to is the word “butt cheeks.” Always good for a laugh. Which, sure, I get it, but he’ll throw it around completely out of context just trying to shoe-horn it into the conversation in an attempt to get a giggle out of it. Like a crappy sitcom character trying to force a catch phrase down your throat. How rude.

Flop by flop, Lucy came out of her funk and ended up eating at least a little. I tried talking to her, reasoning with her, negotiating with her, and medicating her to get her through the pain and discomfort and none of it worked. But I didn’t try falling on my ass. Her little brother and sister had the awareness of her needs and the instincts to solve the problem without overthinking it. The simple brilliance of children. Maybe the next time one of my kids is inconsolable over something (probably something incredibly egregious like their sister using their Play Doh), rather than talking them through it, I’ll just take a header off the front porch. Worth a shot.

Heartwarming as it was, I just hope that this doesn’t become a pattern of behavior. While it is great to have the instincts to cheer somebody up, and it is great to have some comedic chops, I really don’t want to see any of my kids develop into a class clown. My kids are usually the most funny when they aren’t trying to be, or when they are just reacting in the moment and letting their natural personality come out. If falling off a chair to cheer a sibling up turns into fallout of a desk to make the classroom laugh, I’ll have to put the kibosh on that quickly. Maybe read them “The Chris Farley Show” as a bed time story.

But maybe that is just me over thinking it. For now, I’ll enjoy the fact that my kids take care of each other the only way they know how. By falling on their butt cheeks. Ha, butt cheeks.