I am Newsletter Lady at the boys' school. I've been writing, editing, and publishing the PTA newsletter for almost three years now, and I don't see that job ending anytime soon. It's a mostly-fairly-easy way to satisfy the veiled requirement to participate -- I find it easier to volunteer than to be social like a normal person -- and between the three kids, I'll be affiliated with this school for something like 12 years, so I might as well do a job I like well enough.

Probably the most annoying part of doing the newsletter is having to go pick it up at the printer, bring the carton of prints to school, and distribute them into the teachers' mailboxes (really, drawers) outside of the principal's office. The timing is always funky; it takes longer to put it out than it should because it has to be printed in both English and Spanish, so I can't just dash it off. For a while, I did short translations with a combination of my pigdin Spanish and Google Translator, but it was clear to the Spanish-speaking population that I was full of shit, so now I have to send any articles to the bilingual co-president of the PTA, who either does it herself or gives it to other minions for translation. Then the printer always takes kind of a long time; it's a very tiny shop in the basement of a weird building, and the guy there has to special order the yellow paper it's printed on.  

Now that October is half over, I was able to pick up the October edition and bring it to school. I do like getting there during the day, though. I really like being a voyeur at the window of the boys' outside lives. Is that Danny's class at recess? Is that my Jacob who is being greeted at the auditorium door? I love being recognized by the kids as Jake or Danny's mom (even if I don't always recognize the kids or remember who is who); I really love if I get to duck my head into Jacob's classroom because he really lights up at the unplanned sight of me. How long can that last? But it's awesome. My parents never had the kind of schedule where they could do that, so I get such a kick out of it. Of course, it's not really proper to disrupt classes, so I restrain myself as much as I can,  and reserve the pop-in for just before the kids are lining up to go.

Today, I did the newsletter distribution, subtly listening to the school secretary/receptionist/ma nager of everything as she answered phones, paged various people, greeted a plumber, snagged me an updated class count list, and calmly dealt with a child who had clearly gotten himself banged up on the playground. He was waiting (in vain) for his mom to come pick him up, and apparently couldn't go back to class because he was covered in his own blood. Yikes.

I finished up the distribution and picked up my empty carton, and began walking towards the front door of the school. There on the floor, near the stairs down to the multipurpose room where the kids eat lunch, were a series of laundry baskets, in which were piled all of the lunchboxes used that day. Since the kids go right to recess from lunch, the school has this neat policy of having each class toss their lunchboxes into a designated laundry basket; then, in the afternoon, two kids are sent from each class to get their basket. And then the lunchboxes are waiting by the classroom door when everyone is getting ready to leave. A very effective system, if you ask me, since in three years of school affiliation, we've never lost a lunchbox. (At least, not there. I think one or two of Jacob's have permanently ridden school bus #2.)

There, near the top of one of the baskets, was a very familiar sight - Danny's lunchbox. It's a soft-sided, well-used Bob The Builder lunchbox, and I'm just waiting for the day he tells me it's too babyish to carry. I didn't buy it for him; Alberta bought it as a present for Jacob when he was maybe two years old. He used to carry all sorts of treasures around in it, and in fact, it was the source of a great verbal mystery for a while. Jake used to insist "Baba Daya!" all the time, and we had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. (Of course, after a year of speech therapy, we never confused his speech again and he never shut up, but this was before that.) I don't know how long it was -- maybe months -- before DH and I put two and two together and realized that Baba Daya was "Bob The Builder," and referred to Jacob's lunchbox.

It actually did get used as a lunchbox at some point during his preschool years, when it was apparent that Picky Jakey would not each the school lunches. I used to send mini bagels, cream cheese, and little cans of V-8 to school in his Baba Daya lunchbox. It still says "Jacob Fox" on it in faint Sharpie; this year, I added just "Fox" in silver Sharpie, more cognizant of how these things get handed down. I feel a little guilty that, as is often the case, Danny just unblinkingly accepts his hand-me-downs (heaven knows, that will likely change at some point), and both chastise myself (why waste more money when we have something functional) and, well, chastise myself (what's another six bucks for Danny to have something that's just his?).

Danny trots happily off to the school bus each morning, wearing the same clothes his brother did (they wear the same size underwear and socks, so I guess those aren't strictly hand-me-downs), Jacob's coat from last year (fits him just fine and was only $27; thank you, Costco!), and carrying his Cars backpack stuffed with Baba Daya. Danny eats the same lunch every day: a toasted bagel with cream cheese, a Horizon organic chocolate milk, and some kind of fruit (last month, grapes or raisins; this month, apple slices). He comes home ravenous but his lunch box is empty, and from conversations with him I think he's actually eating his lunch, so that's a relief.

I don't know why the sight of that goofy lunchbox brought this on, but it did, and I really had to physically restrain myself from going to the boys' classrooms to hug them. Seeing Baba Daya there -- that little sign of my little guy being in big-boy school -- struck such a note of tenderness with me. That's not the only weird thing; I love seeing Benjamin's stuffed kitties left lying in various spots (I love even more watching him clutch one or two, massaging a kitty ear methodically). Jacob's got pieces of games he's created all over the apartment, which can be really annoying if you like clean surfaces, but are very endearing to find serendipitously.

Their crap is everywhere, and usually it is crap to me, but late at night, when I'm bumbling through the apartment, these signs of boyhood remind me of that crazy depth of love those kids have created in me. Seeing their passions, their interests, their short little histories grow longer; that's what it's all about.