My daughter's last day of third grade was today. Normally, the last day of school is filled with whoops and hollers and not a lot of tears. Today, I entered Hope's last few minutes of class to witness tears, sad speeches and a little bit of drama.
Washington state's budget is in the red (or is that in the black? I've never been good with numbers). There are many cuts being made - and the educational system is not exempt. Hope has been attending a "parent opt-in/volunteer heavy" public school for the past two years. We learned about the closing six months ago.
I think Hope and her friends saved up all of their tears for today - specifically, for the drive to our house. Thankfully, they perked up. And by perked up, I mean they flew into high gear when they saw the treat bags waiting for them.
Last night, in preparation for today, I cleaned house, sliced fruit, stacked oreos, filled bowls and sampled a few chips. Taco-flavored Dorito chips. As soon as I tasted that zesty triangle, I traveled back 28 years (ouch. that hurts!) - to junior high (that's what the kids called it back in the day. I remembered some things I hadn't thought of in years.
Sequoia Junior High. Redding, California. I was 12. My best friend's name was Jackie. Jackie Porter. She was beautiful, cool and super-smart. She was a cheerleader. Everybody loved her. Including every boy in our 7th grade class.
I was scrappy. And not beautiful. Abruptly transplanted from my newly divorced Washington home, I found myself living in a toxic home environment. I was lost - but didn't know any better. Jackie came from the land of oreos and milk. I harkened from the stench of a pack of camels and Budweiser beer with a mom and her live-in lover. We made strange bedfellows, Jackie and I - but best friends we did become. Her Mom was Dorothy Hamill meets the burbs. Only better. She was achingly normal. She made pancakes on Saturday mornings. With chocolate chips. I made my own breakfast each morning. White toast and peanut butter. I secretly prayed they would adopt me.
Diving into the toxicity of my junior high home life is really unnecessary. And by unnecessary, I mean it will send me into a funk. Just know this: Doritos and junk food were forbidden in our home. They simply didn't exist - along with other, more foundational things (b/c we know junk food really
isn't a good thing!).
Jackie's home was overflowing with everything I dreamed of. Mom and Dad under the same, seemingly happy roof. A pool in the backyard. Her Mom drove us everywhere. Let us raid the pantry in the middle of the night. Stay up and watch whatever we liked. Take a swim at midnight. Looking back, I realize that those Porters really were amazing.
One of my weekly goals was to grab an invitation to Jackie's house. For the entire weekend, if possible. Once in a while, I could talk my own Mom into a sleepover - but there was such messiness and dysfunction in my land, I didn't even want to be there. The few friends that did stay the night, usually didn't come back. Camels and budweiser can be a real party buster when you're 12. Or maybe it was the grouchy mom and the drunken boyfriend?
One weekend, Jackie's Mom left us lunch in the fridge and a note that said, "Girls, help yourselves to anything. Doritos are in the cupboard. Love, Mom" I remember two things. We ate our lunch by the pool. And I had my first taste of true Dorito goodness: the taco-flavored chip. Those little guys were the most amazing thing I'd ever tasted.
I was in love with that Porter family. Sometimes I still wish they had adopted me. Or would adopt me today.
Jackie and I lost contact sometime toward the high school years. I moved in with my Dad prior to our 9th grade year - to Hawaii. I actually began my own little downward spiral into questionable choices. My Dad was the giver of freedom. And more than one adventure with Doritos. Jackie and I did see one another the summer before out 10th grade year. She was still amazing. Still a cheerleader. And still my best friend.
So back to that end of the year party preparation last night. I ate a few taco-flavored Doritos. And shot back 28 years to Jackie Porter's house. Eating lunch by the side of her pool. Listening to the strains of the album "1999." (yes, album. Prince, circa 1980). Drinking Mr. Pibb. Remembering how kind her parents were to me - and how much I loved being at their house. I felt so free.
Afterschool today, my daughter and her friends were a blubbering mess. I'll confess it right now - although I was sad, I tend to come from the place of "that's life." I changed schools almost as often as my socks. I was irritated that so much drama was ensuing. And then, I remembered Jackie. More specifically, I remembered her Mom.
I gathered the little troop of weepy girls and stayed in the moment with them. I thought about a lot of true things I could share with them. That this is the ladder of life. Sometimes, the rung breaks. God sees it - and doesn't fix it. We just have to trust.
Instead, I let them have their 9-year-old tears. For the school they love. For the teachers they will miss. For the friends who are going to other schools next year. I would have cried myself, but I knew we'd be in a heap of trouble then.
So, I fed them processed chicken nuggets. We made sundaes (toppings with a little ice cream). The girls swam. I let them listen to Hannah Montana on the outside speakers as loud as their hearts' desired. They sang. And danced. And laughed a lot. I spent an hour drawing bright green and purple dots and flowers on fingernails and said a very small prayer that goes something like this:
Lord - I don't know how to walk this thing called parenthood. But I know You do. Please make my home a place where these girls feel free and see a glimmer of You. And make my heart a place that's pleasing to you. Amen.
No big revelation. But I do know this: Our house is a fun place where Hope's friends can eat as many taco chips as they like. My God is a strange and wonderful worker of situations. And the redeemer of even the most scrappy life. Including mine.