And then it became intolerable.  All of sudden, too much.  And so we made the irreversible decision to pull them.  And, no doubt, two eager HIGH PERFORMING kids hurried in to take our children’s spots, salivating for their highly anticipated turn in the lottery-made queue.  And I can picture them as they embarked on their first day of Awesome, being ushered from their Lexi with a welcoming roar from the morning TCB.

Meanwhile, my girls anticipated the first day at their new school with utter devastation.  And even though riding their bikes to school is “so awesome” they didn’t, couldn’t, understand WHY, WHY they had to say good-bye to their sad friends.  And we love our daughters so much.  We hate to see them sad.  But it kills us to see them devastated.  And the decision was in our hands entirely.

How did we do this to them?

And they sobbed.  Themselves to sleep.  And I sobbed.  And my husband watched, with strength, but with fear of the ravages caused by his wife, that SHE might not be able to handle.  But he reassured me that the HIGH PERFORMING MAGNET SCHOOL was total bullshit.  And it is.  I said so on my blog.

But somehow, for some reason, people sob.  On the way into that HIGH PERFORMING MAGNET SCHOOL and on the way out.  Pre-K parents line-up, 130-people deep to enter a lottery for 22 kindergarten spots.  And four years ago, when we ‘won’ this Pandora’s Box of Turbo School, I punched my husband in the arm, said the f-word, and cried.  Yup.  All in joy.  Punching, swearing, and crying.

And the people behind us, who didn’t get in, they cried.  Tears.  They cried, too.  They lost their chance at Country Club Learning.  At test scores that defied their zip codes.  And it hurt.

And when my friend Jellybean’s number came up and she was faced with the option of sending her daughter to the HIGH PERFORMING MAGNET SCHOOL mid-year and pulling her out of the neighborhood school, Jellybean cried.  She cried.   Over choosing not to go HIGH PERFORMING MAGNET.  What the hell could be wrong with her and is she crazy and all that.  It made her cry.

And what are we really crying about?  Is it because the Recipe for Perfect Living has been ripped from our hands?  Did we narrowly miss The Secret to raising human beings?  And why does the HIGH PERFORMING MAGNET SCHOOL get credit for making such good human beings?  Why all the crying?  And agony?

I would say that I remember a time when school was just school.  But I can’t.  You see, I’m not just a former parent at the HIGH PERFORMING MAGNET SCHOOL.  I’m also a client.  I went there as a kid.  The same school.  In the same building.  Back before the Lexus was invented.

At this juncture, this is only slightly better than admitting to being bald.

Getting through the door was costly; we SERIOUSLY thought of scalping our tickets.  My dress was thrice recycled from other events (score!), but my trip to CVS almost killed me:  hairspray, a curling iron, and hose.   $49.  Value:  eh.  I did internal fist pumps when the transaction was approved by our credit card, with a balance that would scare even Barack Obama, but, I figured, it’s an investment in my appearance. And, ultimately, it’s all for the children.

The auction was well-attended and well-adorned and, well, fun.  And it became very clear to me that everyone, even parents with no money in a depressed economy, needs a prom.  And when you add hotel rooms and chauffeurs, and DUI fines to the bill, you fully realize our commitment to…to the children.

After the prom, of course we had to go to another bar because the children are with grandmother.  And you have to scream to be heard above the band.  And you have to look for food after that, and, ultimately, you have to eat the Big Mac, fries, and vanilla shake in your bed.  You have to wake up feeling terrible and a bit curious about the price of the incidental vices from the night.  The night of revels for our children.

And then you wonder why, as a parent,  you personally have to spend 1.5 billion dollars just to donate 10 cents to the school.  And you wonder if maybe there should be a fundraising campaign, where people write a check to the school for the year, and you don’t have to worry about being sold raffle tickets for turkeys, by turkeys, in the gridlocked traffic circle after school.  And no one will ask you to buy overpriced wrapping paper and you won’t have to argue with other women at 10 AM over how to decorate for Artist’s Day, and you won’t ever have to see four Turbo Moms in their St. Pauli Girl dresses on Unicultural Day.  And you won’t ever be tempted to overspend on a fun night out with your spouse and friends, only to end up eating fast food in your bed while your children are away from you, for the children.

And then you realize why they don’t like you so much at the PTA meetings.