A surprising number of her good friends in 2nd grade aren’t in her class this year. There are some, including one friend who lives up the street from us, but not as many as I had hoped. Some people I recognized, others were new. The hardest part is making small talk with the other parents that I know. Really hard. But School Girl was excited and ready to go, so that made it a little easier.

Her teacher came up and introduced herself to me, which was nice. She seems very pleasant – Best Friend Bear’s big sister had her and said she was very nice. I feel a little better about having her in her class. I wish she had sent School Girl a letter like her teacher did last year, but I’m sure things are chaotic.

This year I left right before they went into the school. I held myself together until I got back into the car this year, too.

The day started around 9 or so. It was already hot and humid; not a good combination for us out here, mostly because we’re not used to it. Many parents were craning their necks to look for the inevitable storm clouds. And there were many, many parents there.

I do know of some schools were “field day” is just that – a whole day devoted to different track and field events, primarily to eat up another state-mandated instructional day when nobody felt like being instructed or instructing. Ours is a little different. It’s all games, designed to give the kids some fun, provide embarrassing videos when said children are of dating age, and thoroughly wear them out to give the teachers a nice, peaceful pre-Memorial Day weekend afternoon.

There were tug-o-wars. There were relay races (in the nice shady gym! Huzzah!). There were various balancing games. There were even a couple of kids who had heat exhaustion (counting mine). And there was School Girl, having a great time with her friends for one of the last times in 2nd grade.

It was pretty amazing to watch the kids, especially School Girl. Bless her, she’s only gotten marginally more coordinated this year; but she’s more willing to try, more willing to participate than even at the beginning of the year. She’s got friends who encourage her and cheer her on, as she cheers for them.

Now that today’s almost over, there’s three more days to go. Not sure if any of us are looking forward to that or not.

First, where the hell was her US agency? Did she have to go through parenting classes for children with special needs? Was she advised of the benefits of seeking psychiatric help for the entire family (including the child’s grandmother, if they were indeed living with her), not just “seeking advice from a psychologist”. Why is the Russian agency/orphanage blameless in all this? I suspect if everybody had been honest about the extent of Artyom’s mental issues, he would never have been placed with a single, inexperienced mum.

I also wonder if she truly understands what adoption means. When an adoption is finalized, you are that child’s parent. Period. No do-overs, no backsies. No giving up and giving that kid back when things are tough. (Somebody remind me of that when we get to the Happy Teenage Years, m’kay?)

I’ve also been thinking of Artyom. He’s learned a lot in his 7 years. He’s learned that an orphanage, no matter how awful, is far safer and preferable to a home. (Apparently, he was removed from his birth family because of his mother’s neglect.) He’s also learned that if you need things to be safe, and not scary – and how can living in a new country thousands of miles from everything you’ve ever known, where nobody speaks your language, not be scary? – all you have to do is misbehave. Test, if you will. Kids test in all sorts of ways; running away, setting fires, hitting, biting, swearing. You get what I mean. He’s learned exactly what he has to do to get back into that nice, safe orphanage.

And, as other people more eloquent than myself have said, at least he’s still alive. There are Russian adoptees who weren’t quite as lucky.

There’s more that I want to say, including a conversation that we had Sunday evening, but I’ll let that go for now. If I can’t write about something without sobbing uncontrollably, I need to leave it alone.

Then there was Friday.

School Girl’s best friend had her 8th birthday party Friday and Saturday. Yes, it was a sleepover. It was a really long sleepover, involving a trip to our local mall, a gigantic mountain of candy at home, and just the thrill for Best Friend’s mother of having 7 wound-up 7-year-olds desperately trying not to sleep.

School Girl said she had a pretty good time. We did get a phone call around 10 or so; she was having a hard time dealing with all the noise, which has gotten better over time but something that’s always been a problem. Evil Dad and I talked her into trying again. By the time we checked in on her in half an hour, things were going much better.

I should say that we’re not into gigundous parties involving everyone in the class, magicians, rented bouncy castles, or epic voyages. We’ve got a small house, and I’ve always let School Girl choose who she’d like to invite. Up to about 6 people. So far, we’ve had parties with 8 (3 invitees and Best Friend’s family) and parties with 5. Last year’s party wasn’t too bad. The kids had a game of balloon soccer going in the living room, we made dry-ice lemonade to go with the vegan cupcakes, and they got to watch Scooby-Doo. Everybody apparently had a good time. School Girl had a good time too, which was the whole point of the afternoon.

I’m trying to talk School Girl into a weekend trip this year, maybe even down to the Springs, for her birthday. Let’s see how far I get with that one, shall we?