On my day off, I went to Edda’s school to spend some time observing her classroom. This is a critical difference between Edda’s school and Vince’s school. In Edda’s you observe and in Vince’s you volunteer.
Much to my former stay-at-home mom self’s chagrin (when I dropped off each child into the arms of a waiting teacher), I have let the whole fall semester pass by and still haven’t gotten to know Edda’s classmates or the aides in the classroom. I was determined and prepared this time; I listened carefully during circle time and wrote everyone’s name down in my little don’t-forget-these-things notebook.
Usually, I don’t dwell on the fairness of Edda’s situation. I have spent many hours in many classrooms pre-motherhood understanding DNA and how the chromosomes split and twist together. I understood that there was a chance that a particular guanine wouldn’t show up when his name was called, wrapped up in the moment the sperm met the egg, and that I was not immune to this randomness.
It’s just that when I’m in a classroom full of kids who drew the short stick and they are surrounded by teachers and aides who patiently coax the best out of these kids everyday that I’m both happy and sad at the same time.