One day after Reagan's ear surgery - which went so well - I took Wilson, his birth certificate, his social security card, his shot record, and our water bill to the local elementary school.  It was time to register him for kindergarten. 

The kids and I made our way from the parking lot.  We've driven by this school nearly every day, watching as it was built.  We stood in front of it and Wilson said "This place looks very big."  And it did.  It looks really big.  It is a million times bigger than his preschool.  He clutched my hand tighter and for a minute I think we both seriously comptemplated homeschooling, but then Reagan took off running and laughing for the front door, so, of course we had to go after her and once we caught her at the front door we thought we should accomplish our mission of Kindergarten Registration.

I was a college recruiter and admissions counselor for several years before we had children.  I am familiar with Registration.  I am familiar with paperwork.  College paperwork.  There was a lot more paperwork for kindergarten than I ever remember for college.  The only thing missing from this was an essay either about Wilson's goals to make the world a better place or if he could choose three people from history to have dinner with - who and why.  No essays, but plenty of other paperwork. 

Wilson sat next to me very quietly as I began writing in  his registration packet.  (Yes, it was a packet.)  Reagan stood next to the information center, tasting and distributing papers all over the floor.  Every few seconds I had to wrestle something away from her and apologize to the receptionist.  I would not have brought her to Kindergarten Registration if I knew there would be a packet to fill out, but I believed mistakenly that I would hand over the birth certificate, the social security card, the shot record, and the water bill and they'd give him a sticker or something and tell us when to show up for classes. 

The receptionist, the school nurse, and other office workers asked if Reagan would like to go with them.  She ran off, happy to be in the company of so many people and so many office machines with buttons to push.  With Reagan off having fun with the elementary school staff, I concentrated on the registration packet.

"Mom, is that a lunch room?"  Wilson looked behind us across the hall.

"Yes."

"Do I bring my lunch?"

"You can do that or you can buy your lunch here."

"Will someone bring my lunch to me like Mrs. Dianna does?"

"I think you have to go through a line and carry your lunch."

"What if I spill it?"

Now, rightly, I don't know the answer to this.  Kindergarten, for me, was back in 1981.  We only had a half-day kindergarten.  This is full day.  We only had milk time where you could choose either white or chocolate milk and you sat down and someone brought it to you.  In 1st grade I remember clearly that the lunch room monitor was about 100 years old and if you dropped your lunch that was too bad.  You had to rely on friends to share whatever they didn't want.  And that meant all you got was a nasty "vegetable medley" to eat.  I'm sure school systems are nicer now.  At least, I hope they're nicer.

I continued filling out paperwork.  A little girl, not much older than Will came in through the office doors.  She reported she was sick and she was ushered back to see the school nurse who then had to pass Reagan off to another woman. 

"Mom, what happens if I get sick at school?"

"You do what that little girl did and come see the nurse."

"Then what happens?"

Again, I don't know.  Right now if he's sick I run across the street and take care of it.  I remember in 1st grade I went to see the nurse because I wasn't feeling well and she took my temperature, said I was "imagining things" and sent me back to class with a scowl.  Later, on the way back from art class I threw up in the hallway between the 3rd and 2nd grade wings.  The nurse said I should have gone to the restroom instead of messing up the hallway.  I tried that but was told to "get back in line" because one must always walk in a single file line when going from art class - or anywhere else for that matter. 

In my mind I'm running over the years 1981 - 1995 in the public school system and millions of bad memories.  I look at my son and in my mind I can clearly hear Pink Floyd singing "We don't need no education....  We don't need no thought control....  No dark sarcasm in the classroom....  Yeah, teachers, leave them kids alone...."  I start to stand up and rescue my children from institutionalized education, when the Principal and several other administrators come out carrying Reagan.  They talk with Wilson and he seems to loosen up.

"Is your baby sister coming to school next year?" 

"No, but I am."

"Oh?  Did you see our collection of stuffed alligators?  The gator is our mascot."

"That's cool!"

He carries on a conversation with the adminstrators while I check off items on the "Kindergarten Readiness" checklist.  I keep careful eye on these administrators, but not one of them seems capable of punishing a child for spilling a lunch tray, condemning children for not being sick enough, or yelling about walking in a straight line.  These administrators seem to care about children - that must be something done after the 80s - compassionate education.  Of course, children are graduating without being able to read, but they don't seem like the kind of teachers who exhibit "dark sarcasm in the classroom" so I figure I can always make sure he can read.

I finish my application for kindergarten.  They take it, hand Reagan, who was not happy about returning to her family and leaving the copy machine, and they tell Wilson "We'll see you in August."

Pain and fear make me freeze.  I'm sending my baby to kindergarten.  I try to convince myself it's kindergarten, not college, but I understand it's not going to get any easier.

We walked out of the building and Wilson reminds me that the next day he'll need me to pick him up "over there".  I remind him he has to wait until August. 

"But I'm ready now!"  He says.

"But I'm not."  I reply.