Smoke from the grill and 4th of July fireworks had barely cleared, when my summertime bliss was callously brought to a screeching halt. The destroyer of my Zen calm? The cursed back-to-school ads dropping ominously out of the Sunday paper.
As they fanned across the floor, my stomach clutched. Gone was my anticipatory delight of a drive to Michael's to check out the obscenely early emergence of Halloween and Christmas decorations. My joy at the thought of leisurely observation of glitter-encrusted plastic skeletons and ready-to-paint ornaments had been snuffed.
In the Dark Ages when I attended school, all that was required of my parents was to provide a bookbag, appropriately stocked with one pencil, one composition book, and a lunchbox. The bulk of my mother's time, when shopping for back-to-school items, was given over to us choosing a great metal lunchbox. The pleasure of possessing a Monkees lunchbox lingers to this day. How I wished I'd saved it! The money it would fetch on eBay today...
As I grew older, my parents might have to keep a package of loosleaf paper and a ruler in the house. And it wasn't until high school that the we experienced the almost-grown-up rush of a binder and colored divider tabs.
Now, my daughter staggers off to her first day of school each year with a backpack that makes her look like Quasimodo. Pens, pencils, crayons, colored pencils, ruler, composition books, looseleaf paper, spiral notebooks, binders, dividers, scissors, glue sticks - all are loaded. Any motherly concern over my daughter's impending back damage is overridden by the pressure of her also having to deliver hand soap, hand sanitizer, tissues, and paper towels to her teachers. These are not in the backpack, of course. These required items are pressed into her already quivering hands - the weight properly distributed - to give her balance, and enable her to stand upright.
By the third day of school, the first round of supplies are successfully delivered. But I am a fool. Every year, just as I am rosily contemplating the sight of my daughter walking uninjured and upright, and weak with relief that I will be able to pay the electric bill on time, the teachers send home yet another list. Not content with my paltry offering of six rolls of paper towels, ten boxes of tissues, and three bottles each of hand soap and hand sanitizer, I am informed that several more of each are to be provided within two days.
Inevitably, I am also remiss in calculating the correct number of three-prong, two-pocket folders needed, despite the obscene number already purchased. One of her teachers is fine with wide-rule looseleaf, two others want college-rule. Though blessed with a stash of binders, donated by a friend after they cleaned out their office, I invariably learn that the binders are either the wrong width or the wrong color.
At this point, the trick is to actually find all the remaining required school supplies. Yes, the Sunday back-to-school ads are still prolific and promise bounty, the prices are still not heart-stopping. But I would rather swelter alongside Zahi Hawass on his quest to unearth another tomb in Egypt then to attempt to procure an additional six composition books.
So, while Zahi is having fun in the sun, I will be sweating alongside a group of agitated parents in Wal-Mart, all muttering to ourselves as we wipe our damp brows. If we are lucky enough to excavate a full bin of composition books, Zahi will lift his head as he digs, wondering if he's really hearing the faint sounds of jubilation in the hot breeze.
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