Drama aside, there’s nothing like a little while in your kid’s classroom to tell you what’s what. For example, 20 minutes into my morning in Second Grade, I’d diagnosed every single one of those kids with ADHD. There was not a lot of zen going on, although despite that, somehow, Mrs. Z seemed to have perfect control. She was, however, also having some difficulty with the newish laptops each kid is assigned (I know! We hit the jackpot! Experimental tech program in Annabelle’s room!) which contributed to the kids’ wiliness.

I, meanwhile, couldn’t stop staring at the Smart Board. Holy cow. You should see one of those things, if you haven’t. It’s like a souped-up overhead projector and a Power Point presentation you make as you go along, rolled into one, and that’s not even beginning to describe it. Way cool.

But the kids. Wow. There’s one girl in there, I’ve never seen her though I know all the other young ladies, one of whom sidled up to me, pointed to the girl and whispered, “She’s evil.” I sort of agreed by the end of my visit. Maybe just rambunctuous. The kid looks exactly like Junie B. Jones and stared at me for a while, then asked, “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

I loved that.

As always, Annabelle was a little weepy when I had to leave, but happy I’d been there. I’m not sure how long I can justify volunteering, since they’ve just about caught up to my meager math skills and I’m afraid of the laminating machine. But I’ll be back. I’ll figure out something. Because time in the classroom is too important.

Sophie’s classroom is another story. And it’s a sad one, for the moment, at least.

After I left Annabelle’s room, I tried to snoop outside Sophie’s. I felt like there was a quarantine, because it’s been decided all the way around that I shouldn’t volunteer in Sophie’s room. Not yet, anyway. She gets distracted by a lot of things — and I’m Ground Zero. It’s to the point where I can’t even walk into the classroom first thing in the morning to help Sophie with her backpack and lunch box; she absolutely balks at doing anything for herself if I’m there.

So I pressed myself up against the wall by the door outside the classroom and tried to peek in. There wasn’t much to see. They were doing carpet time and Sophie was up at the front, so I couldn’t see her at all. I watched a friend of mine sit with the kids — she’s got girls in both Ms. X and Mrs. Z’s rooms —  and then I left.

We had our own visitor last night: Megan. She’s got her own story about why she’s in town, and I’m sure she’ll tell it herself someday soon, at her own fabulous blog, megyn.wordpress.com, but suffice to say, we were happy to see her.

Quite a bit happened today, not all of it good, so I think i’ll focus on one of the pure, joyous moments of childhood and parenthood: the loss of a tooth.

This was Annabelle’s third tooth. Sophie insists she has loose teeth that are going to fall out “in 15 minutes” but so far, only AB has got the toothless grin going. Not so toothless, not yet. She’s got a wiggly top one, but this was her third bottom in a row to fall out (rather, be tugged out, from all accounts of what went down in the classroom).

She was beyond ecstatic, anticipating the arrival of the much-celebrated TF, which doesn’t just stand for tooth fairy.

When Annabelle’s first tooth fell out, I consulted with my Mom Brain Trust, Trish and Deborah.

Trish, the parent of two tween/teen types, gave me her drill: A dollar for the first, two for the second, and so on. Of course you must give silver dollars. (I hope a reasonable facsimile counts; the bank didn’t have REAL silver dollars the day I went to lay in a supply, a few months back. These are some sort of Susan B. Anthony thing. Or was that the $2 bill? Anyhow.)

Deborah’s daughter, Anna, filled Annabelle in on the rest, namely that everyone has her own individual tooth fairy, whose name will be revealed the night of the first visit. Anna’s TF is named Yoko. (If you know Deborah, you’re nodding right now, saying to yourself, “Of course Anna’s tooth fairy is named Yoko.” Deborah’s that cool.)

I forgot about the name thing, The Night of the First Tooth, and had just finished sealing the card (a very special first tooth card, given to me at least a year before by my friend Cyndi Coon, whose www.laboratory5.com designs are to die for, and set aside for this very occasion) when Annabelle appeared in the kitchen doorway, announcing she just couldn’t sleep til she’d written her tooth fairy a note, asking her name.

I’d already signed the card “Love, T.F.”, so I struggled to come up with an appropriate name, which I added to the outside of the envelope. It’s not cool, but Annabelle loves the name Tabitha Fairchild (after all, the child is named Annabelle) and she speaks of her, once in a while, even when she doesn’t have a loose tooth.

This evening, though she should have been prepared, it took Tabitha a good half hour to locate those aforementioned dollar coins in the depths of the kitchen cabinets, and even longer to answer what has turned into a ritual list of questions that are getting harder, I notice. Tonight’s included:

What did you mean when you said you were older than the moon and the stars? (A lady never reveals her exact age!)

Are you fancy or casual? (Very fancy, of course.)

Do you have pets? (A buck toothed bunny rabbit.)

What do you look like? Why can’t I see you? (I really can’t be seen since I’m magic, but close your eyes and imagine a collection of sparkling diamonds with wings, and you’ll be close.)

Do you use the door or the window? (Neither!)

Now I must practice the most terrifying task of parenthood, the Removal of the Tooth from the Bedroom. How will I not get caught? I’ve also got to leave the envelope with the note, along with instructions to look under Izzy’s food bowl for another prize (since the cat recently lost a mouthful of teeth herself), the dollars, and a new hair accessory, because if she’s anything, Tabitha is stylish.

I’d say wish me luck, but I know that tonight I couldn’t be luckier. Best I can tell, this is what it’s all about.

I love that. And I love that my father is quoting The Daily Show. I don’t know much about geography, myself. I was never a good student when it came to the details, and particularly lately, I just don’t keep up on things the way I should. So I’m not even getting geography lessons from maps on CNN.

I’m not sure Annabelle will be any better, if tonight’s bedtime conversation is any indication. Second grade is a little early to worry about such things, though. Right? Who knows these days; soon they’ll be offering standardized tests at birth.

Annabelle had just finished writing her penpal, Micah, a letter, and I remarked that we’d be meeting Micah soon, on a Fall Break driving trip that will include a pass through Albuquerque.

“Oh, I thought Micah lived in Alabama!”

“No, she lives in Albuquerque. It’s a city in a state called New Mexico.”

“New Mexico?” Long pause. “Does she speak Spanish or English?”

“English. It’s not Mexico. It’s a state called New Mexico.”

“Oh. Where is it?”

“To the east of us.” Long pause. “To the right of us. California’s on one side and New Mexico’s on the other.”

“Oh. Then where is Mexico?”

“South.” Long pause. “Um, below us.”

At which point, Annabelle dipped her head over the side of the couch, and hollered, “Hola down there!”

Then totally cracked up.

I’ll have to make sure Ray brings his GPS on the trip.

Here’s the before. (Warning, the colors in these photos are much brighter than the actual paint! Maybe.):

Now that I have a 7-year-old, it occurs to me that most of my childhood memories begin at 7.

I have a few, from before that. I remember peeing my pants the first day of kindergarten (that was fun) and getting upset because I accidentally threw out my lunch bag with the penny change from buying milk in the cafeteria (yes, kids, back in the olden days, a single-serving carton of milk cost 4 cents!) and confessing to my parents. I have some vague memories of the first house my parents owned, but most of those are likely from snapshots.

But everything went technicolor when we moved into our second house, the one I lived in through high school. I was 6-almost-7, entering 2nd grade.

Second grade is where I met Amy Segal, technically my oldest friend. (Our teacher didn’t like our suggested short cut — she made us write our last names out, but to this day we remain Amy Si. and Amy Se.)

I remember losing the school poetry contest to Kari Bookbinder (her poem WAS better) and a lot of things about Hopi Elementary School but mostly, when I think about 2nd grade, I think about my childhood bedroom, the one in our then-new house.

I wanted a pink room. I know that’s nothing original. Every girl goes through a pink phase, right?

I’ve never asked her, but I’m guessing my mother never did. As long as I’ve known her, she’s been all about blue. That’s something I really admire — loyalty to a hue — since my own tastes have wandered over time. I did go through an anti-pink phase for many years, probably associated with my time at a womens college, but in my adult years I’ve embraced it, reclaimed it, celebrated it, sort of like some women like to reclaim the c-word. But not quite.

The truth is, I just like pink. So does Annabelle. So when she wanted to paint her room pink, I said sure.

My mom was horrified. Mainly because she thought it would be hideous. But also, I’m certain, because she remembered refusing my own similar request at the same age.

To be fair, the woman did let me choose my own bat mitzvah outfit, which unfortunately wound up being brown velvet and gray faux silk. It’s not like she didn’t celebrate individuality or creativity. But when it came to something somewhat permanent, like the wall colors in a room in her brand-new house, no way. And I have to give a nod to my mom, then and now — she’s always had the best taste of anyone I know. So I’m certain she was right about the pink then. And now.

Anyhow. Her reaction gave me a flashback to standing in the middle of a store I believe was called Carpet Time. It was run by a guy named Irv, one of my grandfather’s poker buddies (I swear I’m not making this up) and I remember the exact swatch of carpet I wanted — it was your garden-variety middle-shade of pink. My parents said absolutely not, and instead chose a swirly pattern of pale green and white, with a coordinating pale blue and white for my sportier younger sister. (Or it could have been that Jenny was just too young, at 3, to choose, so my mom went to her default. In the end, the dog peed on Jenny’s carpet so much it wound up looking like mine.)

My request for pink walls was also nixed. I got a green accent wall. To this day, I hate the term “accent wall”. My mom did buy me pink flowered bed spreads. It wasn’t a bad room. It just wasn’t pink.

When I was pregnant with Annabelle, I found some super-cute Pottery Barn crib sheets on eBay: hot pink with smiling mermaids and bright green accents. Not thinking about my childhood room, I had the nursery painted green to match the sheets. My mom was nice enough to not say anything, but other people did. Everyone who walked into that room in the 7 years it was green sucked wind; it was pretty bright.

I never did like it, so when Annabelle announced she wanted to paint, I was thrilled. Ray insisted on doing the job himself, so the girls and I were dispatched to Ace Hardware to get supplies.

My mother, who had been lobbying Annabelle for weeks with the term “ballet pink” (figuring she could mitigate damages) desperately wanted to come along, but she wasn’t able to make it on the night we hit the hardware store. She sent me off with all sorts of advice and warnings.

But when we got to Ace, Annabelle announced she did not want ballet pink. She wanted PINK. I pulled a few samples and let her choose.

She chose a shade called “Full Bloom”. We filled our cart. Two days later, I shoved all her junk into the middle of the room, and Annabelle and Ray painted. Sophie wanted to help, but things were getting ugly, so she and I were sent to Target and the grocery store.

Here I will admit that I treat painting the way I treat writing. I go gung-ho, and I don’t like revising. In paint terms, that means I refuse to bring home samples, to make sure that’s really the shade I want. I just go for it.

Maybe that’s not the best idea. There is no equivalent to blogging, in painting. If there is, it happened in Annabelle’s room last weekend.

Halfway through the process, our friend Deborah stopped by. She poked her head in — and back out again.

“WHOA,” was all she said.

“I know,” I whispered. “It’s bilious.”

“Well, that’s not a bad thing,” she said, kindly. When I struggled to name the shade (Full Bloom just wasn’t doing it) Deborah had it: Pepto Bismol. (Again, this photo doesn’t really capture it — really, Mom, I swear.)

But here’s the thing. Annabelle is THRILLED. She loves her new room. So what if it glows? The pink glow is better than the green glow, and we can always repaint — someday.

Sophie’s in line first. At the hardware store, she announced she wants to paint her own room yellow. (Or, as Sophie puts it, “Lellow”.) As soon as she said it, I felt instant empathy for my mother, because I hate yellow. There is no freaking way I’ll ever let a room in my house be painted yellow.

Well, maybe.

While Sophie and I were at Trader Joe’s yesterday, Annabelle made a movie. She had a little help from Ray, but he swears she filmed the whole thing herself. You might not find that hard to believe. My favorite part is where her thumb makes an appearance.

I think the title should be “Who Says A Trip to Target Can’t Buy Happiness?” but Annabelle called it “Annabelle’s Schoolstuff 2008″. Here’s the youtube link:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=G5QP8dp1cbs