Today was a very big day in the life of Rooster. He went to his high school freshman orientation. Reread that sentence and let that sink in a bit. He's going to high school. Next week. Glass of water and a chair for Jemima!!
Poor Rooster was the only one there who had his mother and his nine year old brother following him around. Now before you go thinking that I'm one of "those" moms, let me defend my decision to publicly humiliate my child. He's very high functioning, but he's still autistic. He needs someone with him to explain things sometimes. At school, he has a parapro that does this, but there was no parapro today. So what's a mom to do? Make my kid a social pariah, evidently. I parked my car, and the three of us marched into the gym of good old Brunswick High, my alma mater. I cannot believe I followed my son through freshman orientation. I am mortified for him.
There have been a lot of changes to the Gold and Blue since I graduated, but one thing that seems remarkably unchanged is the gym. Big pirate painted on the back wall, blue drapes on the stage, even the little foldey-outey bleacher chairs are still there. Oh, and while I'm on the subject- there's Mrs. Mungin, my old advisor. And the assistant principal taught umm... world history back in the day. Seeing those two was nothing next to seeing this teacher walking down the hall that I knew as the cheerleader who did all the backflips at the pep rallys. She stood up and told the freshman class that when they graduate, it'll have been 20 years since her own graduation. Somebody should tell her to hush, she's younger than me.
The walls are a different color. It still smells funny, but a different funny. And I know I've gotten wider, but would that really make the hallways seem that much more narrow? the classrooms so tiny? I took for granted that I'd remember forever the hallways of my high school, but as we walked down the old language arts hall (now the freshman hall), I realized that I couldn't remember where my homeroom was. For four years I started every day by walking into that room, and I couldn't remember if it was the second one from the end on the right, or the third. And for the life of me I couldn't find my Latin teacher's room (sorry, Magistra). It was in the middle of the hall, a muddle in my memories, even though I could tell you just where half of her wall decorations were hanging the last time I saw them. I did manage to find my foreign policy teacher's classroom. I think I must have left some energy traces in there because I knew it immediately. It had to be all of the ducking and weaving I did (because he quite often threw things). Ahh, Model UN- the good old days.
As if this wasn't all bizarre enough for one day, our next stop was the show choir room. The show choir teacher (the same one that was there when I left) put all of those hormone riddled, pimple bespotted freshmen-to-be on risers and taught them the fight song. Yup, the fight song. Despite my best efforts, I found it necessary to choke down my instinct to sing along. Unbelievable. This was after my first urge (pointing and laughing) was successfully squealched by the realization that no one present would understand why it was so funny, so strange, so incredibly flipping surreal. Well, maybe the teacher/somersaulting cheerleader might get it, but I had a feeling that she'd already been down that hallway and gotten her late pass, so to speak.
Other things to ponder:
I'm going to be going to Friday night football games again, as a mom.
The homecoming dance is five weeks away. What am I going to wear? I mean, wait...