The Field

May 14, 2015

Today I worked Field Day at my 3rd grader's elementary school. This is a day crafted to amp up every kiddo to a frenzy of gratitude and pent-up mania, for the school year's end is a whisper away and hours of school-sanctioned tomfoolery are on the menu.

My saintly stepmother joined me as we approached our station: two plastic swimming pools, two buckets, two pvc pipes filled with holes. The object of this game was for two teams (two at a time) to run to the pool, fill the pipe and race back to dump water in the bucket. Okay. I could get behind this as fun for me thirty years ago. But it became clear that the primary goal of the challenge was to get as wet and as muddy as possible while Nydia and I watched. I could get behind that notion as well. It's Field Day. Let's get crazy.

A third member of our "team" running the game joined us and I quickly realized we were dealing with an enthusiast of moments such as this. After about five minutes of watching this well-intentioned mom spring to life with the WONDER of collecting WATER in a PIPE and dropping it in a BUCKET, I sauntered over to Nydia.

"Is there something wrong with us that we always get paired up with the weirdos?" Nyds--true to her kind and perceptive nature--giggled and nodded. Nydia and I aren't amateurs in the realm of crazy. We have witnessed plenty and count ourselves lucky to have one another's company as we navigate our way through their midst.

As I watched this mom jump and holler with more enthusiasm than the kids, all I wanted to say was "What the hell's the matter with you?" 

A break in the action came and I took a moment to steal away inside the school for a few minutes. Poor Nydia was left with the unhinged jaw of our new best friend. In five minutes time Nydia had learned all about her love of children and who her child was and how she had worked for 13 years in special education and blah blah blah. I returned to Nyds to find her smile glazed and her eyes glassy. She had been ambushed with unwanted information and plenty of it. Nyds taught high school for 30 years and taught teachers how to teach for 12.  As she recounted the conversation to me, she said with class, "I'm not in to one-upping."

"There is no point," I agreed. "This isn't a pissing contest. But I'm sure if you were a man you wouldn't have been able to help yourself."

Our talkative friend quickly re-approached. "You are Drew's mom!" She kindly remarked. "Oh, Garrett talks about Drew all the time!" She looked at me expectantly. I knew I was supposed to return the compliment, but there was a void where Garrett's name should be. I've never heard your son's name, I wanted to report. But instead, I managed, "oh, Drew speaks well of all his buddies." Or something like that. I was grasping.

It was no time before our next group breezed through. There were clearly a few sweet boys in the class who had special needs and teachers assigned to them who handled their challenges. When the group left, however, our resident expert sidled up next to me: "I wanted to take that little boy aside but he didn't know that I had been a process coordinator for special ed."

No, Cynthia. He didn't know. And I wish I didn't.

Each class and pairing would figure out their own strategy for getting the water to the bucket. This fascinated my gal Cynthia. "Isn't it SO interesting how they use the pipe?" She asked excitedly, standing almost on my muddy feet.

"It is a wonder," I managed.

Over the next shuffle of time, we got these snippets from Cynthia, when she wasn't jumping or describing with awe the strategerie of pvc pipe and water:

Cynthia: I have just a little bit of a headache.

Me: Please leave. (Ok, I just thought it.)

Cynthia: I'm going to take a bathroom break.

Me: Please, make it a long one. (Ok, only to Nydia)

Cynthia: I wasn't going to get in the middle of that! (To me, when two groups fought over who had filled the bucket with the most diseased, nasty water)

Me:  We aren't in nuclear talks with Iran. They are in 3rd grade. It's muddy water and I can feel myself aging. (Again, only in my head)

When our time together had drawn to a close, Cynthia and Nydia and I didn't high-five. We didn't hug or promise to write. Nyds and I scattered like rats. I wish this happy mom well; and I hope there is someone in her life who listens and nods and shares her enthusiasm for everything.

As for Field Day, my boy climbed into the car at its conclusion quite happy. The end of school is but a whisper away, and he had fun. His voice silences all the rest...even Cynthia's.