Last fall, my wife, Emily, and I enrolled our five-year-old son in a public school in Washington Heights. A few days before kindergarten began, parents were summoned to the school to fill out a stack of paperwork roughly the size of a mortgage application. We offered up our home address, cell-phone numbers, e-mail addresses, and a list of approved family members who could pick up our son. We downloaded ClassDojo, an app that allows teachers to send photos directly to parents. Before we left, the principal told us that we would be signed up for the school’s robocall system, which would alert us to arts-and-crafts nights and field days.
All this info sharing felt exhaustive, and exhausting, but there was something sweet about experiencing it with my wife. Emily and I were trying to do this co-parenting thing right. My dad had skipped out on me when I was a baby, and I wanted, desperately, to be a better man. I made our family breakfast every morning and dinner every night; I washed the dishes and made the beds. I probably didn’t always pull my weight, but I hoped that Emily felt I was a real partner. The world wanted to reward me for this impulse. When I walked around the neighborhood with our newborn in my arms, passersby cheered me on. When my wife did the same, they usually just ordered her to put a cap on the baby’s head.
One Friday night, at the end of our son’s first week at school, my wife and I, tired by eight-thirty, hobbled into bed. Emily turned to me and asked if I had joined the PTA. I didn’t even know they’d started recruiting. Had I at least signed up for Family Fridays? I’d never heard the term before. Where was my wife getting all this parenting intel? That’s when Emily first mentioned the calls.
Since our visit to the school, a week before, Emily had received a half-dozen robocalls asking her to volunteer. Strangely, my phone hadn’t buzzed once. I called the school and left a voice mail, asking them to make sure they had my information.
In the weeks that followed, I didn’t get any robocalls, and Emily didn’t report anything, either. I figured the school had hit parents hard in the beginning, and then quieted down. We’re not a knock-down-drag-out-fight kind of couple. I come from a family like that, and I’m grateful we’ve avoided it. But the festering family can be tough, too. It takes a while for the trouble to reveal itself. Until then, there’s silence. One night, Emily sat me down.
Since our first conversation, she had been bombarded with calls from the school. She might hear the same message three times a day. Would she volunteer for the vegetable share, the bake sale, the harvest festival? She had worked a shift in the school garden and had baked the class cupcakes. She was overwhelmed. I asked why she hadn’t told me about the calls until now; she asked how I hadn’t noticed. Now, Emily didn’t accuse me of ignoring the calls, but she might have had her suspicions. I’m flaky with the phone; a decade of dodging bill collectors will do that to you.
I didn’t want to argue, so I suggested that we go down to the school and sort this out. The next morning, we dressed up a little, trying to make it feel like a date. Emily rolled in looking all Afro-Parisian chic. I at least avoided wearing cargo shorts. We found the principal in a large, open office, with parents buzzing around, signing in their kids for late drop-off. The principal greeted us warmly, and explained the situation. The school’s phone system, the one used across the district, allowed only one parent to be listed as the caretaker for each child. In our case, someone in the office had signed up Mom. This was relayed so casually. What’s the use of new technology if it’s going to be programmed by the same old humans?
The principal did have a solution, though: she could switch Emily’s phone number for mine. I looked at my wife. I didn’t literally give her a thumbs-up, but I must have been wearing one hell of a grin; this was our chance to change things. But Emily seemed uncertain. She didn’t want to be cut out of our son’s life, either. And, if I didn’t answer a midday call from the school nurse, who would be blamed for neglecting our sick son? If I forgot about a class picnic, who would be scorned by the PTA? Not me. In the eyes of much of the world, Emily would always be the default caretaker, no matter who was on the robocall list. To Emily, it felt like an impossible position to be in.
“Never mind,” she said, sighing. “Leave it as is.”
I still feel unsettled about where we landed. But, these days, before we sit down for dinner, Emily sets her phone on the kitchen table. She plays the school’s messages on speakerphone so both of us can hear. ♦