By Jenny Klion
Last week, Judy and I stood in line at the 34th St. Gap Kids, eagerly waiting to buy a beautiful new backpack and lunchbox — she chose sophistication over Sponge Bob — imagining her grand entrance into school this fall. But suddenly, the moment turned, as I watched tears stream down her scrunched-up face. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “It’s just that … I’m so happy to be going into first grade,” she said.
Soon after, I went to the first meeting of the season at P.S. 41, and I admit, I cried a bit myself when I reentered the building, anticipating Judy’s year ahead. I pumped my fist when I saw an old Corlears friend on her class list, and I heartily scanned the auditorium for familiar faces, always in awe of that cultural phenomenon — parenthood.
I keep thinking of my best friend, two-time parent L.A. Frannie, and her 18-year-old Hunk, now newly ensconced in his professional theater training program — she’d ended her East Coast tour this summer by dropping her eldest off at N.Y.U. The two are 3,000 miles away from each other, and several weeks into their new life, I think L.A. Frannie has finally stopped crying. The nature of her separation anxiety is a long way from mine — with Judy living practically on top of me, and entering merely the first grade — but again, it’s the experience of parenthood that gets me every time.
Even I shed tears when we dropped Hunk off at his excellent dorm room overlooking Washington Sq. Park. We watched him disappear into the mass of college freshmen and women, while proud parents stood helpless on the sidelines all around us. Hey, I’m a proud parent as well, and just at that moment, I could see into the future, and visualize myself saying goodbye to my precious Judy, off to study who knows what, who knows where. But for sure, I’ll be there, still crying, still parenting, still separating.
In the meantime, it was an eventful summer for my newly toothless first grader, though I’m convinced activities went one week too long for Judy, seeing as both she and my mother had the same response to spending a final week alone together: “Never again.” By Labor Day, we’d all had enough swimming, lemonade stands, ice cream cones, stoop sitting, people watching, water park visits, baby sitting, TV viewing and generally unstructured downtime for one summer.
Sometimes the ex would take Judy to work with him, but it didn’t always seem appropriate for her to scout unseemly Jersey locations for “The Sopranos” (think strip clubs, butcher-type storefronts and good places to dump dead bodies). Furthermore, her babysitters, and the rest of Judy’s it-takes-at-least-a-village support team, were clearly stretched to their limit, but eventually, we all made it through the home stretch of the summer. And with Judy’s summer reading assignment completed — a fat scrapbook of a collection of her favorite restaurant menus — she and I are ready to do the back-to-school rock.
I might weep secretly and silently when I take her up the stairs to her new classroom, though I can hear Judy’s words already: “Mommy, are you crying?” “Maybe,” I’ll respond. At least I have a good 12 years ahead of me before I hand her over to a higher educational institution. And anyway, and most importantly, Judy’ll be fine, then and now.
