THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, October 20, 1996 TAG: 9610200047
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Opinion
SOURCE: ELIZABETH SIMPSON
LENGTH: 55 lines
I didn't cry at the bus stop.
So I thought I had slipped safely through the milestone of my first child's entry into kindergarten.
And I didn't get a catch in my throat at the thought of her walking down the polished tile hallway on her first steps toward independence.
I didn't cringe at the flood of announcements, warnings, requests and rules that arrived in her backpack every day. Or balk at having a permanent supply of wrapping paper because of PTA fund-raising.
This being a school mom was not going to be so tough after all. Or so I thought until a friend of mine recently made a remark that ratcheted up the pressure.
``Everything counts now, right?'' my friend, Clara, said. ``From now on, Taylor will remember everything.''
Thinking about my own memories made me realize she was right. My pre-kindergarten recollections are hazy and sepia-toned, prompted by faded photographs that I don't remember being snapped. But life after the September 1964 day I first crossed the threshold of my town's brick schoolhouse is crystal clear. I can still remember the red gingham dress I wore the first day, and the sweat between my palm and my mother's hand. I remember Lodena Biggs, my kindergarten teacher, and how her long, brown, shiny hair brushed against my face. I remember the smell of the vanilla wafers, the waxy feel of the milk carton at snack time.
I also recall how mad I was at my parents for buying the small box of crayons instead of the jumbo one. And how I begged them for a store-bought mat to sleep on at nap time, and got a throw rug instead. I remember the one time my mother was late for a school recital.
And now that I'm a mother, I feel the pressure of someone watching. And that someone is my daughter. If I messed up when she was a baby, who would know? But now I have to get all the details right. I want her personal reservoir of memories to be Hallmark-card perfect instead of a therapist's checklist for disaster.
For a mother who flies by the seat of her pants, who's often afflicted with absent-mindedness, getting everything right is one mean feat.
And as if my daughter's memory bank were not enough pressure, every story I've read lately is about the importance of the early years in a child's life.
Everything gels between 3 and 10, the experts say. If my daughter doesn't have music lessons, she won't be good at math. If she doesn't handle a computer mouse, she'll be a technological outcast. If she doesn't have gender-neutral toys, she won't be assertive enough.
The list is enough to send me into a frenzy, the words of my friend Clara echoing in my mind: ``Everything counts now, everything counts now . . .
Maybe I can take a break when my daughter reaches third grade. After all, Everything will be set in stone by then, right? But for now, I have to choreograph some memories, and make sure everything is just so.
Is it too late to cry at the bus stop? by CNB