THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, September 9, 1994 TAG: 9409080173
SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON PAGE: 07 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: OVER EASY
SOURCE: JO-ANN CLEGG
LENGTH: Medium: 85 lines
Seeing a big yellow school bus make a test run through my neighborhood last week took me back a few years.
Twenty-six, to be exact. That was the year when my youngest started school. Had he followed in the footsteps of his brothers, he would have started the year before. He, however, had other ideas.
``OK, Andy, we're going to sign you up for nursery school next fall,'' I had announced in the spring of his fourth year.
``Nurdery school, NO!'' he replied, making the two-letter N word sound like something he should have his mouth washed out for.
I didn't usually give in to my kids' demands but in this case I did turn to Plan B. I left Andy at home with my neighbor and signed a contract to teach for a year in a rural school district near the university town where we were living.
Andy was happy, I was happy and the neighbor, who was as much in need of extra income as we were, was exceedingly happy.
The next year we moved to Virginia Beach and Andy could not escape the inevitable. Even though there were no public kindergartens here at that time, like the man who wrote the little book I firmly believed that there's a lot of important stuff to be learned in kindergarten.
Stuff like the fact that other kids will beat the stuffing out of you if you refuse to share, that shoving someone else's head in the drinking fountain means answering up to a principal who looks like King Kong and that finger paints are for slathering, not slinging.
That was one reason why, in September of 1968, I opened the front door and propelled Andy across the street and onto the St. Peter's Day School bus.
The other reason was that I felt a strong desire to regain just a smidgen of sanity.
For nine years the conduct of my life had been determined by a grumpy beagle and first one, then two and finally three two-legged creatures who arrived on this earth with healthy lungs, little control over what came out of their body openings and a strong desire to waste any siblings who might stand between them and their desires.
I had spent an inordinate amount of time drying tears, wiping noses, cleaning bottoms and breaking up fights. In nine years I had not had an uninterrupted conversation, a hot cup of coffee or a relaxing bubble bath.
When I went for a bike ride I had either a 30-pound sea anchor belted into the kiddie seat behind me or a miniature Evel Knievel wannabee on a J.C. Higgins two-wheeler with mismatched training wheels beside me.
When I served a meal, the kids all fought. When I sat down at the piano, they all laughed. Except for the beagle. He howled.
Now it was my turn to have time to myself and I was, by golly, going to enjoy every minute of it.
As soon as the bus turned the corner that first morning I went back in the house and sat down at the piano. The dog woke up and howled. ``I haven't even started playing yet,'' I yelled at him.
I started to play. He howled louder. Neighbors came out to check on the dreadful noise. The one I was making. They were used to the one the beagle made.
I left the piano, got my bike out of the garage and went for a spin through the neighborhood. A mile down the road my chain fell off.
I pushed the bike back home, parked it in the garage to await Bill's return from a six-week cruise and went upstairs for one of those nice long bubble baths I'd been yearning for.
The phone rang. I ignored it. It rang again. I ignored it a second time. When it rang for the third time I decided I'd better answer it.
It was the clerk at the neighborhood elementary school. ``Come get your son,'' she commanded me. ``He just vomited all over the classroom floor.''
``Which son?'' I asked. ``Mrs. Clegg, this is the first day of school. I don't have the foggiest notion which one it is. All I know is he says he's one of yours so you'd better come get him. Immediately,'' she commanded.
I threw on some clothes and looked at my watch. It was 9:45. I had had exactly 1 hour and 15 minutes of freedom from kids.
I picked up my cookie tosser, sat him in front of the TV with a glass of flat Coke, a damp washcloth and an empty bucket. Then I contemplated my situation. There would, I decided, never be peace for this weary mom.
The following week the rector of St. Peter's called. ``Mrs. Clegg, one of our teachers is leaving. Would you like to take over her class?'' he asked.
I thought about it for all of 10 seconds and accepted the offer. If I was already sentenced to a lifetime with ill-mannered short people who laughed when you played the piano, threw up in classrooms and never allowed me have any peace, I figured I might as well be paid for it. by CNB