The Fall Event

It's Fall Event time at our daughter's school. This means it's time to shell out for a sitter, bring a covered dish and spend a Saturday night in small school gym eating and chatting with other bleary-eyed parents.

We have volunteered to help with some of the food tables and to take pictures at the event. (Side note: the volunteer pressure in general is quite something and bested only by the donation pressure.) So, we arrive with our fruit salad and camera - all set to have a wonderfully awkward time milling about with people we don't know.

It actually gets off to a decent start. We quickly find a set of parents that we met last month at orientation. Our daughters continue to talk about each other at home, and we're all happy that they've become friends. Actually, our daughter has been mentioning two additional girls with great frequency as well, and this set of parents confirms the foursome. It's nice to hear that the group she's been telling us about does in fact exist.

But no more time for chit chat. There are photos to be taken. I bid adieu and turn to the crowded gym.

Uhhh. Hmm.

I look around. Do I just start snapping pictures? Will people wonder what the hell I'm doing? ("Hey, what's with the dad over there taking pictures of everybody? What a freak!") Do I go for candid shots? Or would it be easier to ask people to pose and smile? What will annoy people less? What will make me seem less... dorky?

And that's just it. I feel like I'm transported back to school myself. Finally invited to hang with the cool kids, but stuck behind a camera and destined to bug each and every one of them. You know - the dork.

Well, in the interest of time, let me just say that it goes fine. Once you start taking pictures of strangers you get sort of used to it. And people seemed to enjoy it for the most part. I moved in and out of food tables, grabbing a few candids, getting a few smiles, and so on. By the time I sat with my wife to enjoy some food, all was well. And there we were, back again, with the parents of our daughter's friend.

Then it gets better. See, the parents of one of the other girls in this little foursome realize who we are, and come over to talk with us about our daughters. They had heard just as much about our daughter as we had about theirs! How marvelous! We're all pretty excited about this. Our little girls, these tiny three-year-olds who tromp off to preschool every day, have truly made some friends. We're all so new at this, and it shows. But who wouldn't be thrilled? Our girl has friends! Friends that she made herself. Friends that she looks forward to playing with every day. Friends that she talks about. Friends that talk about her! Although it's a little much, I start singing Pat Benatar's "We Belong" in my head.

We have a genuinely nice chat with these people until it's time to head for home. We pack up our fruit salad, say goodbye and make our way out of the school. I feel a little like one of the cool kids. It takes being an adult and having a preschooler for me to finally feel like one of the cool kids. It's a little weird, but I'll take it.

I squeeze my wife's hand as we wind through the cold neighborhood to our street-parked car. "That sure was fun!"

"I know."

We belong, we belong to the light, we belong to the thunder...

"Everyone was so nice!"

"They really were!"

We belong to the sound of the words we've both fallen under...

"How wonderful to meet those girls' parents!"

"It was really great!"

We pile into our car - our station wagon, of course - and we settle in. I put the key in the ignition and turn to my wife. We both smile. It's all good. It's all great.

Whatever we deny or embrace, for worse or for better
We belong, we belong, we belong together

I turn the key, and the headlights pop on, illuminating the parked car in front of us. Um. The bouncing parked car in front of us. The parked car with, I kid you not, a steamed up back window. My wife and I stare. The car bounces, rather ferociously. Up and down, and, frankly, a little side-to-side. Despite the steam, we can just make out the back of a guy's head, sort of pressed against the back windshield. He's balding a little, but, needless to say, still seems to be able to get it on.

We pull out and drive off, my mental jukebox transitioning smoothly to "Love is a Battlefield."