The Communal Highchair of Righteousness

This week, I took my one-year-old to preschool at our church for the first time. (Yes, our church construes the definition “school” liberally. Since our son only recently managed growth of his own eyebrows, I can’t imagine what exquisite lessons in finite mathematics await him. I just hope he’s challenged enough, you know what I mean?)

I’d steeled myself against the expected drama of the whole dropping-off experience. Since before Judd was born, scores of long-drawled Virginia mommas have regaled me with survival stories of the first time they “le-uft their fust born with straaaaange-uhs.” Some of them described a scenario inside the classroom, at the “goodbye” moment, not unlike something out of a bad Lifetime movie about a bitter custody battle, complete with the five deputies and the taser and the “NooooooooOOOOOOOOO!”

After a while, I told them all I planned to get around that whole mess. I’d just leave him in a little basket of reeds in the sanctuary parking lot. Ah, if only church were anything like the Bible…

Judd and I got inside the school without incident, and I put him down on the floor with even less incident. One or two mothers were huddled in the hall with the teachers, handing out “specific” instructions for the handling of their youngsters. The rest of us, who didn’t bring a list and thus fell into the Non-Specific group (Judd does not have any allergies, he is not a vegetarian, and he smokes only socially), were asked to come on inside and individually label each of our child’s spare diapers with a magic marker.

Why? I have no idea. When I was in school, the supply list never said “Please send your child to school with her own toilet seat labeled with her name.”* But, it’s 2008, and heaven forbid we expose a Pampered rear end to cross-contamination from a generic-brand diaper.

Let’s just say any fears I had that this facility might not be overprotective enough were gone. I turned to leave, with a little pride in my step.

I hadn’t cried. I hadn’t fretted. I hadn’t demanded to know what types of detergents were used to clean the classroom carpet, and whether or not they had phosphates. I had graduated, tear-free, and I was off to a little quiet time.

But then I saw this:

That’s when the little lump beneath the ribcage started to form.

Now, those of you who’ve never attended Bible School or Sunday School or any kind of Church/School may not understand the kind of nostalgia this piece of furniture evokes for me. The Communal Highchair/Straightjacket. It’s chic. It’s holy. It’s universal. It says: “Come share the unselfish, bountiful fellowship (from which there is no escape).”

Funny, yes. But in the instant before I walked out the door, I remembered what it was like to sit at that table. I remembered who I was when I sat there.

Though I lived in different towns and went to different churches growing up, one fact was as constant as that table — I usually went to church and to school with the same classmates, but only on Sundays were all those classmates my friends. We began to drift as soon as our eyes opened after the Benediction. Back to the Monday morning cliques, back to the back of the band room or the front of the foul line at varsity team practice.

I was no better than anyone else, and I’m ashamed to admit that, now. Though I tried hard, there were some Sunday Schoolmates I laughed and talked with at church, yet rarely spoke to the rest of the week. There were certain boys for whom I joined in a snickering chorus of “Ewwww!” when their names were mentioned in the seventh grade hallway. But on Sunday morning, I held their hands for prayer circle.

I never gave it a second thought. Church was a calm refuge where everyone was nice to everyone else. No question. It was expected. It was the norm. Grudges begun in locker room fashion wars during the week were put aside. The heartbreak of Friday night’s Couples Spotlight Skate was forgotten, if only temporarily. We wouldn’t have thought of behaving any other way.

But, it didn’t last. We all eventually outgrew Sunday School and Youth Group. Our parents stopped making us come on Sundays, and we quickly forgot what a nice refuge we’d had. We told ourselves that watching Meet the Press in our pajamas was more relaxing that what that little table had provided. We were wrong.

In the end, Judd survived his first day. So did I. The dropping-off part, anyway. Taking him out, taking him back into the world…that was harder.

*I did, however, always have to bring two large boxes of Kleenex. Everyone did. On the first day, you could have built an igloo out of all the boxes. What was up with the Kleenex requirement?

Comments