The alarm on my Blackberry buzzed.
Danny shoved me, "Get up."
"You get up," I answered.
"You don’t want to be late for the first day of school," he said.
Danny went into Lil’ Danny’s room and shoddily sang, "Wake up, wake up, good morning, it’s your first day of school." My son snarled.
Then my daughter came upstairs to show off her new outfit. She wore a white polo short-sleeved shirt, underneath a purple cardigan, skinny leg jeans, and a pair of purple converse with a purple book bag over her shoulder.
The untapped student in me was envious.
I wanted what my daughter has – parents and poise.
I think I could have been like her at the same age. She gets good grades, is ambitious about being valedictorian, and aspires to attend an Ivy League university. "Harvard, or maybe Wellesley," she says.
But instead, at her age, I was a woman. Bringing up children, paying some bills and troubled by the ones I couldn’t pay. No way that I could focus on school. And when I did try, I was sidetracked by Edgar. We were in a special education class. Edgar sat across from me and continually grunted like a seal. He was Lithuanian and severally handicapped by disease. He drooled and struggled to coordinate his movement. But Edgar knew how to laugh. We laughed a lot. Most of my classmates were disabled, some with a short leg, some with a short arm, and most with a mental challenge. I must have been in the class because of low intelligence.
It wasn’t long after my year with Edgar that that I dropped out of school.
Then my daughter’s voice returns me from memory. I look at her again. I smile. I admire my daughter.