This weekend Tyler was awarded the good company of his kindergarten mascot, Curtis E. Bear. Curtis sits in front of the classroom and decides which student has displayed the most courtesy throughout the week.  That student gets to take Curtis home and bring him along on all weekend adventures, then report on it the following Monday to the class.

This weekend, Curtis was caught aiding and abetting Tyler as he replaced the dog water with bubble solution, water-painted a lampshade, turned a bag of library books into paper airplanes and peed in the bathroom garbage pail.  (Both boy and bear deny it with everything in their beings—but really, who else could it be?)

To add insult to injury, halfway through tonight’s bedtime story and with no warning whatsoever, Tyler threw up all over me, his bed, the one library book that remained in tact, and you guessed it—Curtis E. Bear.

As Curtis braces himself for a bath in the Whirlpool Washer, I have to wonder…can a trip through the spin cycle absolve a bear from a weekend of corruption and debauchery?

I’m not sure which I’d like more—the answer to that question, or a snapshot of Mrs. Warren’s face during Monday’s report.

That being said, please join me in wishing a fluffed and tumble-dried Curtis well as he embarks on his next adventure. Next week’s courteous kindergartener is waiting in the wings.

If ever you begin to think your life is interesting, just for a moment, imagine the life of a take-home kindergarten mascot.  Oh, but the stories they could tell.

“Tyler, don’t forget to bring your coat home today. It’s going to be warm after school, but you’ll need it tomorrow morning. Don’t keep leaving it in your cubby.”

“OK.”

“And your library book.  Stop leaving it in your backpack. The librarian sent home another notice last week. I think she threatened me, but I can’t be sure.”

“Ugh-huh.” … “And remember to change out of your rain boots once you get to your class.  Hand in your scholastic book order, cause today’s the deadline. Don’t forget to thank Mrs. Warren for the happy note.  Buy something other than pizza for lunch, will you? And what’s your pin number again?”

As he boarded the bus, Miles, the sixth-grader at our stop, turned to me and waited.

“Are you forgetting something?” he asked.

“No, I think that’s everything. Why do you ask?”

“Because,” he replied, shaking his head, a bit impatiently, “you’re still wearing his backpack.”

A mother’s ultimate challenge: trying to stay on top of her kids from beneath the rubble of her inner chaos.