and the award for best actress goes to...

Last year Shane and I did our share of tours. The touring of preschool through eighth grade independent schools that is. Our tours entailed a series of successful arguments brewing with disagreements. Some education institutions, online, seemed right up my philosophy alley, but that’s when tours are crucial. For instance, I was convinced this particular school was the one until we walked the halls. The scent of disappointment was stifling, “I don’t like this school, this sucks,” I sadly admitted to my better half the defeat of my assumption. “Don’t worry, I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, but I didn’t like it either.” My husband admitted in relief.


Hidden in the kingdom of the Portola neighboorhood, a magical and fantastical institution exists. Street parking was a b*tch (excuse my astute observation), but as soon as we cleared the secured wooden gates, the kingdom was breathtaking. The students walked the halls with a confident, but worldly bounce in their step, a very honest description. The environment lacked the evangelistic coddling philosophy that's reinforced by constant whining. The kind and gentle philosophy that kid's would fail to thrive , if ever exposed to, the temperamental predatory that is the real world. This educational institution was precisely amazing.

The preschool's “North” room enormous and brightened with a wall of large windows, a fireplace, a performance stage, a kitchen and everything artful and imaginative. The preschool program ranged from three to six year olds, the six year olds were mentors and leaders to the younger students. The outdoor play area was short of spectacular. There were trees, a generous play area, basketball hoops, lower beyond a grassy green space for garden, compost, and science and observation and such. Shane, who is obsessed with sports and the outdoors, even gave me a nod of approval. Shane and I were quiet as we observed the little ones playing and interacting. We moved through each building, observed each class through eighth grade. I gathered, from each grade, every student was motivated, passionate to learn. Ironically, happy to be there. Heck, I was happy to be there!

The group of parents reconvened in the library for Q&A. Center stage, parents adorned with triplets, the father (paralyzed from the waist down) prefaced his concern with the wheelchair access throughout. Great, here we were trying to get one slot and we were up against a family that required three. Dratz. Unlike other open houses, this was highly organized, and informative. Limited space. The drolling obstacle of living in a city. As many of these schools preface diversity in every aspect possible, we weren’t sure along what lines. Did it mean that the kid with two moms made the grade? Did it mean that the kid with the transgender dad gets first dibs? Did it mean the family that suffered from the current plummeting financial climate had leverage? Or the family that could buy the institution in one swoop transaction? I was at a loss.

The Caucasian parent that was our tour guide, spoke triumphantly that she was chosen on the first selection and she was convinced her essay was apblomb. The tables have turned. The odds just shifted as my fervor for writing was obvious, but essays were my true delight. Unbeknowst to me the online application disallowed unlimited characters for the essay section. I hesitated as I’d rather have hand written the essay and submitted archaically via the United States postal service. As soon as I hit the submit button, I had a sinking feeling.

There were limited slots for preschool. It was written in stone that siblings were treated as royalty on top of the current class composition. As this school is well sought by many parents, I was flippant and sure that Hunter would make it in. The school's curriculum is absolutely divine and perfect, nonacceptance wasn’t an option. Filing an application to private and independent schools is tagged with a fee, in this day and age non-refundable money seemed brainless. Seventy five big ones, the amount equivalent to one Whole Foods grocery bag, was handled with care.

They were a few decent public schools in the city, as Shane a product of, therefore an advocate for public education, wasn’t up on his ever slimming California state budget research. Some bay area public schools lacked libraries! What good is a school without books? Meanwhile other schools' music and art programs, and physical education programs were axed. Public schools were on a lottery system which meant we were more likely to fly to the moon on a back of a flying pig, then get into the selected public school. A decent education in San Francisco has proven tougher then thought. I now understand why parents make their pilgrimage outside of the San Francisco city limits, for proper education for their kids.

If there were no schools to take the children away from home part of the time, the insane asylums would be filled with mothers.
-- Edgar W. Howe

Today, I got off work at four o’clock and picked up the kids and was home by five fifteen. I prepared a dinner of pork chops on a bed of sauteed onions, cauliflower, and kale. “Did you check the mail today?” I asked Shane as I never made it down to the dungeon that is the garage. “No, why? Expecting something?” He sensed my urgency as I could care less about the mail, if it was piled ten foot high. “Yes, we should be getting the acceptance letter sometime before February.” My stomach turned, tightened along with my clenching jaw. I felt ill.

He returned from the dark dungeon with a pile of mail. I sorted through the stack and there it was. The white letter damped from the rain. My heart galloped. I had to sort through my thoughts. Hunter and Stevie circled around the kitchen table laughing and playing, oblivious to my sudden anxiety attack. My palms surprisingly wet with nervousness. This is ridiculous! Why am I getting worked up over a letter? My son’s only two and three quarters. Shellie, honestly! Have I become one of those moms? Am I the overbearing and obnoxious stock? Am I one of them?

“What’s the matter you nervous or something?” My husband hitting the nail on the head.
“Yes, I am. I’m scared.” I sort of chortled so as to hide behind the thick fear. I have become one of those stage moms, but for wild sport of education. Meanwhile, my perfectly sautéed onions sizzled on medium high heat. Like a bandage over a cut, I tore the envelope open quickly and there it was in plain big loud words, “…Due to sibling priority and an enormous amount of applicants, your child hasn’t been selected for the next admission step... a final letter will be sent in March 14, 2010...” They thanked us for our interest and so on and so forth. I couldn’t finish the letter as the message was brief and concise.

Essentially, the second step was to bring the selected few into the classroom for a behavior assessment. Following a distribution of final acceptance letters in March in which the families are given ten days to accept with a thousand dollar deposit on the tuition. Still a light of hope as perhaps, this school may not be their first choice or financially the selected family is unable to afford the tuition in which opens up a slot of chance for Hunter. I coated my daydream nice and thick over the growing pain of rejection.

The energy in our home had shifted in to a quiet and somber one. “Well, I’d better do some research.” My husband unfazed by the letter, was clearly relieved by the financial aspect of this endeavor. I, on the other hand, was in a high tail spin like a deer in headlights during rush hour. My world had ceased to turn on it’s axis. The onions remained on high medium heat. The pork chops rested collecting it's juices plainly on the cutting board. My body numb.

I couldn’t believe it. I was astounded. We didn’t make the cut. I was already planning on attending the child behavior assessment session. In my head, I was already invited. The decision warped through my head moving slowly into reality. Our application was just a “wall flower” in comparison to the sea of applications. The rejection amplified far beyond the break ups from former cheating boyfriends and deeper then psychotic former girlfriend (that verbally battered husband into complete submission via guilt and kids) and harder then lying and deceiving unworthy former relatives. This was the ultimate betrayal.

“Can you please heat up the kids’ dinner?” My outburst was short and loud.
“Hey, don’t take it out on me?” My husband reminded me that there was still life outside of my tightly screwed bubble that is my expectations. “I didn’t do anything.” My husband happy on cloud nine as the tuition to this institution was equivalent to an ivy league college education, it eased his future expenses. “I’m not taking it out on you.” He didn’t need my convincing, my body language fessed me up. My shoulders curved. My posture slouched like a weeping willow. Thankfully, my bottom lip didn't curl into a pout. I didn’t discipline Hunter when he refused to eat his pasta and defiantly walked to his playroom.

The mystery of the application selection trampled through my head. I excavated every response on my application trying to discover my error and my flaw. I was really taking this personally. After I finished my dinner, I announced that momma was simply tired. It wasn't a lie, mentally my mind was flopped. I scooped Stevie Day up and headed upstairs for bed. It was six thirty eight and the sun had just expired.

I sunk deep in my disappointment and failure like quicksand. I was sucked in the vapid blackness. I couldn’t understand it. I was better then this! I’ve been through hardships that, for some, is unrecoverable. Here I was crowing about some selection process, that wasn’t exactly over? My nine siblings would clearly be disappointed at my weakness, "buckle up, it's not the school that molds the child, it's the parents. It starts from home." Somehow I knew this, like I knew my own name. I was mourning my rejection process like a donkey plowing a field of hard soil, I was having a hard time with it. Who in the world of mars, did I think I was? I was human.

Stevie actively squirmed in the bed. It was too early for sleeping even for her. I’m allowed minimal time with my kids, here I was hiding from the world like a third grader pouting in my sand box. I scooped her in my arms and gave her the biggest swelling hug. As the citizens of Haiti were being dug up from rubble, I was feeling sappy for myself (even I wanted to kick myself). Shane and Hunter joined the rest of the family in the queen size bed.
“Momma wotcha doing?” My son extraordinaire observed my odd silence. He wondered why momma resorted to a dark room and flat panel television, watching crap about celebrity updates.
“Mom’s sad that’s all.”
“Momma’s sad? Momma’s not happy? Why momma not happy?” My son simple perspective to my maze of ridiculousness,” Momma, I love you too.” He swarmed me with his little arms around my shoulders. There it was, my success in plain stupidity. High quality pedigree as my son expressed kindness as my husband, the crux of the family, grinned from ear to ear (he was the bigger sap). I was surrounded by good old fashioned kindness. Love that is in and of itself, my creation. Mine. My family loved me. The heavens parted and from the celestial, clarity was hatched. That evening, I didn't mind sharing our bed with the kids. I needed all the love I could get.

This is Shellie “no drama for your mama” back to you Bob at the studio.