By Melissa Moschitto
It is early, she is tired and also over-heated, sweating under a knee-length wool coat. She carries with her a beat up manila folder filled with nearly identical packets of very important information from multiple schools. She does not, however, carry her travel mug of coffee, which is still on the kitchen counter at home. There are no other parents waiting in the hallway, which compounds her feelings of distress and disorientation.
The Mother tries to explain to the woman at the front desk how she’d attempted to pre- register, but the form on the website refused to go through — it just kept re-directing her back, back, back to the homepage, an endless gaslighting loop. This is evidence, she thinks, of the public school system’s groaning bureaucracy. She pictures all of the teachers and staff and children at the school, crammed inside of an enormous wooden wheel, straining to push it forward, grinding forward in time, laboring to keep Education alive.
Digging through her purse for her photo ID only produces wadded up tissues and wrappers from three different kinds of snack bars.
“You’re not on the list,” says the front desk woman, who looks up at her without raising her head.
Her folder drops to the floor and papers scatter across the hallway. Maybe she’s actually supposed to be at a different school tour. This alarms her. “What day is it?” she asks from a crawling position on the floor.
“Your name has to be on the list,” is the reply.
Is it possible that her daughter will not get into school because her mother couldn’t fill out a simple registration form? Is parental ineptitude considered in the lottery process? Parents can select up to a dozen potential schools on their application. Experts — parents of current kindergarteners — have emphasized that you must fill out all twelve slots or you might end up assigned someplace you didn’t choose, like that school seven blocks south with permanent scaffolding and no outdoor yard. Choice is important. Twelve little schools, all in a row, she hums to herself.
Papers collected, the Mother stands, shifting back and forth like a see-saw at the front desk. She begins to wonder how she will manage to get her child to school on time every morning. Her child may fail kindergarten based on tardiness alone. Sweating in the wool coat and knock-off Burberry plaid scarf, she starts to slip it off, but sees a line of dried spit up running down the front of her rayon top. She quickly closes her coat.
She is now ten minutes late for the tour.
“You’re ten minutes late for the tour,” the front desk woman says, a jarring echo.
“I can catch up!” she offers too forcefully.
Finally, front desk woman agrees that she is indeed someone’s mother, and sends her to catch up with the on-time parents-of-almost-five-year-olds.
Each door along the hallway contains a narrow stripe of a window, offering a tantalizing split-second glimpse of classroom as she passes. When she arrives at her destination, she sees the teacher perfectly framed in the glass: round and soft, welcoming, a dark curly bob. Small children are bouncing around the Teacher like frenetic atoms orbiting a maternal nucleus: bubbly, precocious, oblivious. The Mother enters the room and without taking her eyes off of her atoms, the Teacher directs her to sit in a chair. Eager to comply, the Mother collapses into its squatness. There are no other parents here, only an assistant who wheels in a roll-y cart laden with trays of food.
“Let’s have breakfast!” the Teacher sings.
One by one, the children are presented with styrofoam bowls of warm oatmeal. The air smells of brown sugar. With a twinkle of excitement, the Teacher serves the Mother.
The Mother hesitates. She feels she should decline the bowl of food, but also, she is hungry, having forgone breakfast in order to race to the school, only to be late for what may be her daughter’s future. She looks around, so alone.
“Eat up!” The teacher commands.
The Mother obediently spoons oatmeal into her mouth. It is warm and creamy.
How good it feels to eat!
She exhales deeply. Her shoulders relax. Forgetting about the dried spit up and the wet
underarms, she removes her bulky coat. The teacher rings a little bell and suddenly all the children swirl around. They jump and wiggle their way to the rug. She can smell their shampooed heads. She wants to nuzzle them.
“We’re going to name the days of the week,” the Teacher announces, looking at her.
The children sing a song about Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday, which the Mother remembers from her own school days. She begins to sing along, at first timidly and then with more confidence. Singing makes her take deeper breaths. Her chest expands and her cheeks flush with pleasure.
How fun it is to sing!
Just then, the Teacher reveals an enormous box of art supplies. “Look!” the Teacher croons, spilling out crayons onto the table. The children scramble to take fistfuls, so the Mother takes a fistful too. Together they draw swirls on the paper. Filling space with color makes her happy.
“I’ve always wanted a friend,” says the Teacher, holding up a book. The Teacher has a lovely lilting voice and easily changes her pitch and timbre to create all the different voices of the different characters in her book.
How pleasurable it is to be read to!
Just as a little toy bear is getting a shoulder strap stitched back on, the Assistant lays out rows of blue mats around the room. The Mother chooses the spot in the corner by the window with the sun streaming through and the hissing radiator. She bundles her coat into a pillow and lies down. Her body is still and calm. Her eyelids are heavy. Her breathing becomes slow and measured.
How wonderful it is to sleep!
* * *
Melissa Moschitto (she/her) is a fiction writer and playwright. She is the Founding Artistic Director of The Anthropologists, a theatre company dedicated to the creation of investigative theatre that inspires action. Melissa holds a BA in Theater and English Literature from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing from Cedar Crest College. She is the author of two published plays: Artemisia’s Intent and Give Us Bread. The mother of two dramatic children, she resides with her family in Upper Manhattan on the ancestral land of the Lenape.