How Do You Spell S-M-U-G?

I called my sister Jan tonight on my cell phone.

"Jan," I said, "I just called to gloat."
"OK," she replied reasonably.
"I am right now in my car, on my way home from--get this--my LAST Back to School Night, after twenty-six straight years of Back to School Nights. Twenty-seven if you count Danny's preschool orientation." I let it sink in.
"Wow." She meant it.

This year, Dan and I both went. Together. I remember those years of divide and conquer, when somebody went, and somebody stayed home with the kids....then the later years of divide and conquer, when we both went but divided into different kids' classrooms. Then the even later years of divide and conquer, when one of us went to one school, and the other went to another school. In the peak years, Back to School Nights spanned across elementary, middle, and high schools, sometimes with multiple children in one school. It was a tactical nightmare which could spread over days or weeks.

There were papers and more papers, syllabuses (syllabi? silly busses?), teachers' names and contact information (phone numbers in olden days, email addresses in recent ones), rules, requirements, expectations, presentations, grading policies, and rubrics (whatever those are). There were nervous teachers trying to impress parents, and nervous parents trying to impress teachers. Teacher conferences to sign up for.

In elementary school, there were often booklets prepared by the children, strategically placed on each desk, entitled something like, "All About Me." I remember the year one child-- Joey, I think--mentioned television on every page of his "All About Me" book. What do I like to do most? Watch TV. What is my favorite thing to do with my family? Watch TV. I love my mother because...she watches TV with me. Yes, that was an impressive start to the year.

Sometimes we would get the same teacher one of our other children had before. Then it was like a reunion as we gave progress reports on the older child. ("Actually Rebecca just got married. Yes, really.") Sometimes we got the dreaded teacher. We would listen politely, see right through that sinister smile, and pray our child would survive. Sometimes we got the favorite teacher. We would glory in our good fortune and bask in its warmth. One year we were lucky enough to get the third grade teacher who always read The Chronicles of Narnia to the class every day after lunch, and she used neat voices.

We survived the years of video presentations in the cafeteria, which introduced parents to every single member of the faculty and staff, down to the last janitor. We survived talks by local school board members wanting to get re-elected, and explanations of why we should vote yes on the school bond.

We sighed as overhead projectors were replaced by power point, but were still the same thing.

We squeezed ourselves into little chairs and short desks, and filled out 3x5 cards with life altering information. "Write your name, your child's name, your phone number, and something you think I should know about your child," the teacher would say.

We were dazed by the seven periods of a high school day, where we had no idea how our kids could cope with so many expectations, read so many books, learn to use hi-tech labs, speak foreign languages, do science fair projects, sing on stage in gowns and tuxedos, and prepare for Advanced Placement tests. We held maps of the school in our sweaty hands, and felt like freshmen.

There were grand moments, like the time the chemistry teacher set the table top on fire.

But no more. As tonight's activities drew to a close, as Dan and I hurried back to the stairs (again) to get to Steven's seventh period class on time, I said to him, "This is it. This is our last classroom, at our last Back to School Night." We both felt a twinge. It was a genuine twinge. It was a short twinge.

Then we high-fived.