It is Field Day at my son’s school. A day which conjures up fond memories of circling the playing field for the third time out of five as my knee socks chunk down inside my tennis shoes; of tossing the discus, which flies exactly three feet before dropping dispiritedly in the grass. And let’s not forget the tetherball championship, which ends with a boy named Jim Ganz* slamming the ball repeatedly with his fist while everyone else ducks to avoid the stinging slap on their skin. It is one of the great unheralded improvements to the current system that the playing of tetherball has been all but eliminated from public school, which makes me wonder how the Jim Ganz’s of today get out their aggression. Bullying, probably.
Anyway—field day. A day when the children are outside for a full six hours, and the late-May weather cooperates in the usual D.C.-area way by being sunny, humid and a stultifying 95 degrees. If you live here long enough, you get used to it. Or pretend to. It builds character.
Unfortunately, during this particular morning rush, bad mommy is distracted and frantic due to a visit from a pest control man and a parade of odorous house ants (a blog for another time), and the child leaves for school without putting on sunscreen. Yes, it was my fault, Officer. I admit it.
I remember the sunscreen, conveniently, the moment after the school bus pulls away. But this is a simple problem to solve. On my way to work, I will bring the boy his sunscreen, he will put it on—he is perfectly competent at doing so, a skill he has cultivated in order to prevent me from helping—and the sunburn disaster will be averted. No problem. I load my briefcase into the car, grab the sunscreen, and drive to school.
But this is not to be. Because, as it turns out, I am a felon. I have brought an illicit, controlled substance onto school grounds.
When I get to school, I learn that my son’s bus has not yet arrived. I stop dutifully into the office. Could they please give him the bottle of sunscreen when he arrives at school? The office administrator tells me I need to see the nurse.
Let me stop here a moment to say that the office staff at my son’s school are some of the most patient, warm, friendly people I have ever met. Their jobs are difficult, because they have to deal with parents like me. Because I cannot help myself, and when a situation strikes me as utterly absurd, little explosions go off in my head and then come out of my mouth.
The nurse says, “You will need a medical form signed by the pediatrician.”
“For sunscreen?” I say (taking deep breaths). “It’s not a prescription,” I add. In case there is some misunderstanding.
The nurse explains that sunscreen is considered an over-the-counter health product requiring a doctor’s signature on a medication permission form in order to be applied at school, even if it’s applied by the child himself.
When I finish hyperventilating, I say, “So, the Board of Education doesn’t mind if my child gets sun poisoning from spending six hours in the bright sun without sunscreen, but they do mind if we apply sunscreen at school.” Little explosion in head, right about now.
The nurse raises her hands in the air, clearly preparing to fend off a physical attack. In a more timid voice, she says, “You could try his teacher.”
Now that’s the institutional buck-passing I remember fondly from my years in school. Satisfied, but wary, I look around for cops and hall monitors, and don’t see any. I tiptoe to my son’s classroom, hiding the contraband in my purse. As it turns out, his bus has arrived after all. He is sitting in the hallway with the other students, waiting to be admitted to class. When I show him the sunscreen, he glances left and right and says, “Quick, give it to me!”
Between the two of us, we manage to get him covered before the classroom door opens—before anyone notices what we are up to. He hands the bottle back to me.
“Take it,” he says. I stick it in my purse. “Now, go!” he orders.
At that very moment I notice staff members heading toward me wearing ominously matching T-shirts and lanyard ID’s. It’s time to skedaddle, before I get drafted for six hours in the heat, supervising tug-of-war.
Note: I hope that by sharing my experience I have prevented someone from making the same mistakes I made. Officer Ganz says if I turn in all my forms, signed and on time, they will let me out early for good behavior.
*not his real name
