While sitting on a chairlift last Saturday afternoon, I overheard a ski instructor telling his middle-elementary-age charges, "We're happy. We're smiling. We're in control."
You could tell by the tone of the guy's voice that he'd had a long day.
But I thought, Fantastic. New family motto.
Who cares if it's ten degrees out? We have appropriate gear, and we, by which I mean the Grape, should be grateful we get to go skiing in the first place.
I chanted the ski school guy's words at the Grape for the rest of the afternoon as he zipped down increasingly steeper slopes with grinning confidence. "We're happy, smiling, and in control."
Control is a good thing, R. and I agreed.
Which reminded me of one terrifying challenge looming: the Drop Off Play Date.
I'm a control freak who tries not to over-parent.
I let my kid climb trees. I let him ride ahead of me on his scooter or bike, because I trust him to stop and wait at intersections. I let him play in suburban friends' backyards with other kids, without an adult out there.
I've taught him to be as street smart as possible.
Not to trust cars to stop for us.
To avoid touching needles, broken glass, shit (human and canine), half eaten candy bars, realistic looking toy assault rifles, and condoms—all items he and his friends have encountered in the otherwise lovely playground across the street.
To respect unknown dogs.
To give space to the visibly mentally ill and to drunks passed out on benches. Particularly if they have their pants down.
All necessary city skills.
I've also taught him the manners necessary to be a good guest.
He knows to say please and thank you, to flush the toilet, and remove his shoes when asked. He understands that he is not to jump on furniture, and that he's definitely not to use any rude language.
I still get hives thinking of the Drop Off Play Date.
The kind where the kid's parents aren't in my social network. (I'd have no problem whatsoever dropping him off with a mom I know.)
There are the two key differences between preschool and kindergarten: you no longer have any vote in selecting your child's friends, and you don't meet the other parents twice a day, every day.
We hosted a Drop Off Play Date last Friday. The Grape and his friend, a child from the kindergarten class, had a blast.
But I was surprised that the mom, whom I couldn't confidently pick from a crowd, allowed me to pick her kid up in a car, and keep her kid at my house for four hours.
This is evidently what we're doing now.
I invited another new friend of the Grape's to come over, with her mom, whom I also don't know. The mom thanked me for the invite, but said she'd drop the child off for a couple of hours. She wrote, "It's time to let her spread her wings a bit."
These moms don't know me and we have no friends in common.
But am I the weird one?
I could be drunk all day. I could keep a loaded gun by the door. I could leave the kids in front of the TV and go get a massage. I could send them to the playground unsupervised while hosting a tryst.
The playground is, after all, visible from my bedroom window.
It's obvious to me that I don't do any of the above, but why is it obvious to a complete stranger?
Or do normal brains just not go there? Is the fact that we were all admitted to the same private school supposed to suffice? Because I'm pretty sure private school parents can be bad apples just as easily as public school ones.
I get angry with myself for thinking this way. It's paranoid, unattractive.
It does take a village, and at some point, we need to trust the village. Which is a hard thing for a control freak to do.
Even though I understand that the village self polices, to a point. If a child goes home and reports weirdness, I presume that reduces the chances of a repeat visit.
I've asked the Grape if he wants to go on a Drop Off Play Date, and so far, mercifully, he's told me, "When I'm six."
At which point, he probably won't receive any invitations, because he's declined too many.
I keep reminding myself: He is a full year younger than just about everyone else in kindergarten. A year is a huge deal at this age.
Maybe when he's six, I'll be ready to relinquish a little control.
I'll be more like these other moms, gushing, "Thank you so much for taking him off my hands for a few hours!"