This month wrapped up our son's first year in the surprising, grimy, magic-filled world of Waldorf education.  May also marked our third and final parent night of the school year.  A seasoned parent of- What?  Seven months?, I was prepared for the awkward ritual of thirty or so grown humans filing into a lamp-lit portable.  I was prepared for us to  gather in a circle of tiny wooden chairs built for five year-olds.  The odd spectacle of all of us sitting with our knees up to our chins, making small talk about babies and the weather, wasn't even a surprise this time.  And just like before, our son's teacher cast her quiet spell over the room, until we were all... crying?!

Apparently, I should have seen it coming. 

Act I. More water, sir?

We began by addressing the unicorn in the room: some kids would be moving on this year, to begin their journey Through The Grades.  Yes, they would probably belly up to the kindergarten play yard fence and ask their old friends for a nibble of kale- a favorite snack from the kinder garden- but their time had come, and it was time to move on.  Other children (my son included) would begin their second year of kindergarten, this time as the class Elders.  My son's teacher noted the exquisite interest many of these elders-to-be had taken lately in finger knitting and supporting one another in the class plays. 

The most coveted duty of second-year kindergarteners, however, is that of the water pourer.  Many children were eagerly looking forward to their upcoming tours pouring water into their classmates' tin cups during snack and lunch time.  To the five year-olds, it is a sacred act both of skill and status.  They had a big year ahead.

My first parent night, I was baffled by the tribal, we're-raising-each-other's-humans-together vibe, facilitated by my son's teacher.  It is particularly out of sync with the teacher-on-parade routine I encounter at the more traditional school where I teach.  The evening is about parents?  Talking about their kids?  To each other?  It was shocking enough to inspire one of my first blog posts of the school year.   This time around, I was refreshingly taken aback by the professed evidence of kids' growth: increased interest in finger knitting, participating in class plays, breadmaking skills.  It was especially poignant because it came when I was struggling for air in the midst of administering California's standardized tests at my own school.  Our state's CAASPP test is also intended to measure kids' growth: mastery of common core state standards, evidenced in literacy and numeracy scores, viewed and subdivided into ethnic subgroup and socioeconomic status.  Oh, and there's a statewide mandate that 95% of all students take their test- no matter how often they come to school, or how frequently they have been relocated to the counselor's office.  My head was swimming with academic data points and completion rates, and here we were celebrating the Waldorf students' interest in finger knitting?  Two different worlds.

Act II. Hopes and tears, of course.

Thankfully, the crying part was not about data points.  It was about hope.  (Naturally.)  Just when things were feeling perfectly benign, each parent was asked to share a hope they held for their child, for the year to come.  I thought my son's teacher was suggesting it as an afterthought, as a convenient way to transition from our quaint talk about water pouring to move the party outside.   Clearly, I am still new to the game. 

The first couple of parents who spoke up said something light about hopes for having fun in the first grade and continuing to eat vegetables.  Fine.  Safe.  Easy to follow.  However, as the silence between call-outs lengthened, parents seemed to be digging  from the deepest wells of their anxiety.  What started as healthy eating quickly snowballed into developmental troubles and loss of innocence.  Before long, we were hearing confessions of parents' deepest fears for their five year-olds, and the hopes that they had that their fears would be eased.  Tears started rolling down parents cheeks, as nods of empathy and a Kleenex box were passed around the room. Despite my resolve to abstain from the waterworks, even I fell victim to ambient gravity in the room.  I had every intention to go with Option A, wit, but Option B, vulnerability, somehow popped out of my mouth instead and I joined in the anxiety party.  "I want my son to feel bigger!" I eeked out.  More head nods, and back pats, and reassuring anecdotes about how much their children loved my very tiny son ensued.  I know makeup is not very Waldorfy, but if I had known I could have at least worn waterproof mascara.

Somehow, in a short amount of time, my son's teachers cut to the quick in a roomful of parents.  To their credit, the routine was framed as positive, as a simple profession of hope.  It was quickly evident, however, that the line between a parent's greatest hope for her child and the fear that the hope will never be realized is painfully direct.  Sure, we were asked to look forward.  But it was actually a thinly veiled ploy for looking within.  Who wouldn't want to do the same, after working all day, shuttling the kids around, and joining a group of adults whose names they are still learning?

The cynic in me wants to think that, on a quick scan of the not-very-diverse room, a group of Waldorf parents is more unnecessarily anxious than most.  We might be.  We might not be.  I've never asked.  The closest I've come is a private questionnaire for the few parents that attend my own class at back to school night- but the idea of asking for their hopes?  To be shared in the presence of teachers and fellow parents?  It might get weird.  It might get real.  It might be more about the stories students are bringing to class, rather than a showcase of teacher bonafides.  I don't know if I'm brave enough to do it. 

Apparently, the trick is old hat for my son's teachers; once cheeks were drying, veteran parents laughed afterwards that this is the way it goes every year.  Just like that.

Act III. Pass the floral tape

All of this- the tears, the expectations for second year kinder or first grade- was just a prelude to the night's finale: weaving flower crowns.  Yes!  For real!  You know the one Maid Marion wears at the end of Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves?  Like that.  Or if you don't get that agonizing cultural reference, try this: Jenny wears a pretty sweet one when she marries Forrest Gump.  I imagine a lot of them got stomped into the mud at Woodstock.  Yep.  We made those. 

Like the communal weeping and sharing of hopes, the flower crown night happens every year.  Each parent is asked to bring cut flowers and foliage to contribute to the big night, which is in preparation for... wait for it... the maypole festival the following day.  Complete with ribbons, special dances, and rituals conducted by kids adorned with homemade flower crowns.  I saw the pictures afterward- the children look like a posse of meadow nymphs.  It is a big effing deal.

My husband and I brought a basket full of roses and salvia from our garden, plucked in the prime of spring's first bloom, and a pair of pruning shears left over from my vineyard days.  I expected most parents would do the same, and that we'd sit around for twenty minutes or so gluing said flowers to something similar to Burger King crowns.  Have I mentioned that I'm new to this? 

Parents brought bucket upon bucket of garden trimmings, eucalyptus branches, long grasses, and even- gasp!- store-bought daisies.  Hundreds of them.  And instead of a polite division of resources (This is my pile of hand picked roses, this is your pile of lavender and eucalyptus leaves...), everything was laid out over six picnic tables, plus their benches, plus the ground around them.  It was a scene worthy of Eliza Doolittle, or maybe A Midsummer Night's Dream.

And then we spread out over the kinder play yard, and got to work.  The moms and dads who knew what was coming (these are probably the same ones who brought Kleenex to the crying hour) came armed with florist's tape, little green wires for tying, and gardening clippers.  Not a single tube of glue, nor cardboard hat to be found.  We made our passes around the flower tables, holding different sized blooms up to one another to find just the right matches.  Then we cut, twisted, and tied them into our kids' head-sized wreaths.  And it wasn't just the moms; some dads, still in their work slacks, were delicately wrapping rose stems into lemon leaves with careful precision.  You know, like most parents do at their kids' school night.

I will say this: it was fun.  Since we all had something to do with our eyes and hands, conversation among the parents fluttered and floated like the Pacific breeze.  Now that the catharsis of Greatest Hopes had passed, we could bridge the small talk with requests to borrow floral tape or ask for tips on how to get those rose stems to stick in their weave.  It took on the feel of a dinner party between a group of people who had been set up by mutual friends.

My first go at a flower crown- an extra for the school secretary- was mediocre compared to many of the foliage masterpieces pulled off by some other parents, and puny compared to the one my husband created.  But hey, it's my first rodeo.  Next year I'll get to try it again.  But next year, I'll be prepared: waterproof mascara, comfortable pants, and florist's supplies.  And maybe some discreetly concealed chardonnay, for the flower weaving.  

What else should you expect at parent night?