First Impressions

The kids and I walked over to the elementary school tonight for the annual Ice Cream Social where all the students get to meet their teachers. I prepped Clayton all day for the moment when he'd shake his teacher's hand, look her in the eye, and say in his smartest voice, "Hi. I'm Clayton. It's nice to meet you." In that moment, she'd see how lucky she was to get such a polite, charming, and confident genius in her class. Clayton rehearsed flawlessly. (Because of Isaac's natural charisma and because conversation spews effortlessly from his mouth, he received no prior training - and because he refuses to do anything I say). I imagined myself impressing the teacher with my educators jargon and chatting it up with other parents over heaping bowls of topped ice cream. . . But.

When we arrive at the school (dripping with sweat), the line for ice cream is bulging out the front entrance. We stand precariously inside the heavy half-opened door, catching just the faintest wisp of air conditioner above our heads. Isaac whines incessantly and finally plants himself on the persons foot behind us, grumbling. I apologize and hoist him off the guys pant cuff. The kind gentleman smiles at Isaac and says, "Well hello there. And who are you?"
Scowling, Isaac holds up four fingers and grumbles, "I'm foyer."
"Foyer? Well, it's nice to meet you Foyer."
I can't help chuckling.
Clayton complains/asks a hundred times why there are SO many people. I assure him that the wait will be worth it for yummy ice cream and the chance to meet his teacher. We finally inch our whole selves inside the building where I notice that we're not in the line for ice-cream at all, but the line for carpool numbers, which we need, so we stay. . . until the gentlemen with the messed up pant cuff kindly points out the totally blatant sign overhead which reads Grades 4-5. We move to the Pre-K/K carpool line, which is much shorter. Thanks.
Eventually we make our way through the crowds of parents and students to the gym for ice cream. Isaac only gets lost once but I spot him clamoring back between someone's legs in the opposite direction. I quickly bribe the Boy Scout recruiter to retrieve my son. I'm amazed at how courteously people move out of his way. I take one of his fliers, compliment him on his sharp uniform, and tell him he deserves an Eagle - or something.
We sit on the floor by ourselves, by the garbage can (the only floor space available) to eat our small prepackaged cups of generic ice cream - an utter disappointment to Clayton and Isaac. But Brigham happily devours his napkin full of sprinkles while I fill out the required forms and sign up to be a "room mom". Then we head off to the classrooms. I'm happy to see that the kindergarten hall is less crowded. There is a small clump of people (busily filling out forms) with their backs turned to Clayton's teacher, who is facing our direction and looking at no one in particular. I hand Clayton his completed form and nudge him toward her. At the same moment another parent thrusts his form at the teacher and engages himself in immediate conversation with her. Without looking, the teacher takes Clayton's form and puts it in the pile. Clayton says to her waist, in his smartest voice, "Hi. I'm Clayton. It's so nice to meet you. Did you know that I am really fast at running? I can't wait to come to school and I'll show you my. . ."
His teacher doesn't hear a word. I step in to bail him out. She notices me for the first time, points to the clump of people, and says, "The line's back there."
We maneuver around some non-English speakers and take our place at the back of the "line". The wait is unbearable until the boys discover the drinking fountain and thoroughly entertain themselves doing things I KNOW are against school rules. But I let them anyway.
Finally the teacher acknowledges us and smiles. I usher dripping Clayton into her handshake. When he doesn't take her hand she bends directly over him and says in her totally rehearsed teacher voice, "Hello. I'm Mrs. Toobusytonoticeyou. It's nice to meet you."
Clayton says nothing.
The teacher fumbles through her papers for his name. "What's your name?"
Clayton says nothing.
The awkward silence is broken by a loud bonk, a yelp, and a howl, followed by screams of pain. I look down to find Brigham smothered underneath Isaac, holding out a bloody finger.
I startle Isaac with my quick emergency reflexes and he starts wailing and thrashing too. I whisk all three children out of the building and out of sight as quickly as possible, slowing down only to sneak Isaac's form into his teacher's pile, hoping she doesn't notice us. She does and the crowd of parents stare in horror. "My my, Somebody isn't happy!" she says guffawing and making an obvious mental note of his name on the form.
Safe in the parking lot, Isaac recaps with thorough detail how Brigham found some leftover sprinkles in his pants and wouldn't share. So Isaac tackled him to the ground to "make him share" and "accidentally" BIT his brother's finger!
I'm SO wishing I had my car, not only for a faster get way, but because it's now raining. And because I want to drive Brigham straight to the emergency room to get his finger sewn back on.
But I don't. I march my screaming, soaking brood home for a lecture and a band-aid.
I put everyone to bed, including myself (as soon as I finish writing this), with a pat on the back for winning the biggest first impression award. Good night.