Life By The Slice, The column - observations on life, relationships and humanity - sometimes humorous, sometimes serious, always from the heart.

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RELEASED AUGUST 4, 2003

Life doesn't necessarily fit into pre-made forms

“Mom, here’s this one too, and this has to be filled out tonight because my teacher told me that if it wasn’t, then we’d be in big trouble,” my youngest daughter tells me, home from her first day of school.

She hands me the gazillionth form that the Board of Education, principals and teachers alike must have on file. There are blue cards and yellow papers and long white sheets that don't fit with the others. I must consult phone directories, address books, shot records and calendars and then locate the appointment book used last year in order to remember when her last check-up was with the dentist.

The most difficult part of completing these forms really isn’t the pulling of records or looking up of phone numbers. It’s more about attempting to make stepfamily information fit into their neatly designed forms that haven’t been updated since the divorce rate was 10% of all marriages.

The Emergency Blue Card, to be consulted in case of an accident during the school day, asks for Father’s Name, Home Phone, Place of Work, and Work Number. Same for the Mother. Nowhere on this form is there room for Custodial Mother’s Current Husband’s same information. Or how about Cell Phone, Pager and Email Address? What about Father’s New Wife’s contact information as well? After all, in this age of connectivity, shouldn’t they have all the information possible, just in case?

The section that asks me to list who's allowed to pick the child up has room for two contacts. They must be assuming Mother and Father. I suppose I could print our family database chock full of stepsiblings, six sets of grandparents and a slew of aunts and uncles that are authorized to take my child from the premises. But then, that wouldn’t conform.

They ask for Physician Name. Would that be the one I take her to, or the one to whom her father takes her? Depends on which day the accident might occur, I suppose. It also states to list in order of importance, who to contact first, who to contact second and then choose hospital or doctor after that. Mother or Father is all that’s available as an option. Personally, since my ex-husband travels frequently, I’d prefer my current husband be contacted second, however, he’s technically not the “Father” of my child, as this card so neatly classifies. So do I lie or tell the truth? Should an attachment, complete with legal disclaimer be attached heretofore, acknowledging and explaining my possible web of deceit?

I think back to just five short years ago. I recall the glazed look in the eyes of my daughter's first grade teacher when I questioned her about how to best answer the questions on the form in case of emergency.

After year three, I began questioning out of sheer amazement. Same reaction every time, whether it was a teacher, school secretary or principal. I even spent one full morning, out of curiosity, trying to contact the person at the actual board office who designed these forms. Apparently, the person who developed them was either a) on vacation, or b) dead.

Finally, I finish the documentation after I manage to squeeze the eighth phone number within the margin, writing sideways. It's nearly time for Day Two of school and I click my pen, stretch, and yawn. As I stare at the rising sun, the reasons I dislike this annual task with such a fervor, come to me. It's because these nuclear family-oriented, fill-in-the-blank, multi-colored forms manage to nudge open the bags of guilt that I've worked so hard to neatly pack away. The multitudes of papers that must be completed are subtle reminders of failed relationships and pain. They're just one more example of the lingering non-acceptance and thoughtlessness of a bureaucracy with regard to keeping up with the times.

My daughter frantically runs into my office and questions whether I've completed all of the necessary forms. My hands fumble as I tap the errant sized papers against the desktop to straighten them and then hand them to her. I hold them as she pulls. Her eyes lock with mine. I demand a kiss before giving over the stack of papers that hold all of my personal guilt. We hug and she quickly stashes them in her new backpack. Off to school to learn. To begin to learn that life doesn't necessarily fit into neatly designed fill-in-the-blank forms.