Bonkers for Back-to-School

I am sitting in the middle of a giant pile of crayons and markers. There is a stack of tissue boxes in front of me, obscuring my view of the television, and I can't keep my hands off the new Spiderman thermos I just bought for KosherCop. It's shiny.

I keep wondering how old I will be before "back-to-school" stops being a time of wonder and excitement. Apparently, I am also a dork who loves school supplies.

And this time we finally have someone going back to school. KosherCop is off to kindergarten in a couple of weeks. It's not really that much of a transition - instead of going to a Jewish preschool housed in our synagogue, he will be going to a Jewish day school housed in our synagogue. The change seemed so effortless I was actually worried that I might be cheated out of all the angst mother's of 5 year olds all over the country are right this minute experiencing!

But then I went online to the new school's website and discovered there was a parent handbook to read. And supplies to purchase! And a summer reading project!

Wait - a summer reading project for kids who haven't actually started school yet? And can't read? It's really work for us parents - we have to get the books from the library, read them to our child, and fill out a log. The log doesn't even ask for their favorite part. Just title, author, and parent's signature.

Oh well. I already finished all the forms the school sent. At least I have something else to fill out.

The funny thing is that KosherCop has been less than enthused about starting this new school. None of his friends will be going there and he has spent the last year of preschool making up games that involved "making a plan to get the [elementary school] kids".

But, this past Sunday we went to Target to pick out an insulated lunch box and he had a complete change of heart. This was my pet project even before I saw the school supply list. Since the school doesn't provide refrigeration or a way to heat food (as the preschool did) I was hell-bent on keeping the bacteria at bay. This is especially hilarious considering the metal box (more on this in a moment) in which my own lunch festered each day all through elementary school.

Once he picked out the lunchbox (tan camoflouge with orange trim - I was horrified), he realized he could get pencils and erasers and his very own pencil sharpener! By the time we got home he was literally dancing around the house saying, "I'm really excited to go back to school now that I have all these new school supplies!"

Part of the reason I was so intent on KosherCop getting a lunchbox he liked was because of my own sad childhood lunchbox trauma.

Picture the scene. It's 1973 and I'm getting ready to start first grade.

We are on our way to visit relatives and it has come to my urgent attention that I need a lunchbox. Rather than take me to pick one out another time, we are parked in the parking lot of the A&P supermarket. It is raining and I'm sitting in the back seat with my two older sisters - in the middle because I'm shortest (remember the hump in the middle of the floor in the back seat of old cars?). I am not allowed to go inside.

I have, however, given my parents very simple, very specific instructions: Please get me a Brady Bunch lunch box. I am very excited about this. I love the Brady Bunch. I play Brady Bunch. I pretend there are seven of us.

After patiently waiting for several minutes I see my parents returning to the car. I can't wait to see my new lunchbox.

They get into the car and hand it to me. It is a Partridge Family lunchbox.

My parents inform me there were no Brady Bunch ones. And, well, the Partridge Family is on after the Brady Bunch. Since I watch it - along with all the other people who just finished watching the Brady Bunch and have simply left their TVs on - my parents believe this is a fitting substitute.

How can they think the Partridge Family is as good as the Brady Bunch? Maybe they aren't my real parents. Maybe I am adopted.

Note to self: Search for real family and hold a grudge for the next 36 years.