Last week, we were invited to spend an hour or so at Alden’s new school, Henry Highland Garnett Elementary School (site of the elementary education of one Robbi K. Behr).

Of course, we went. And, of course, we brought the whole family. Kato and August have been very curious about this strange new place where Alden has been spending all her days.

Our first task upon reaching her classroom was locating her desk. It took a bit of hunting about, but eventually we found some clues.

And I’m not talking about her name, of course, but of the self-portrait/puppet that was attached to her chair. I’m sure it’s impossible for you to tell which of these two heads is Alden’s and which is the puppet. I’d tell you, but I’m a bit unclear myself.

Our activity for the evening was to go around the classroom and review a series of color-coded posters, each of which dispensed some sound parenting advice. The idea was that we would check a box each time we read (and considered the weighty implications of) a poster. When all of the boxes were checked, we were to report back to the teacher as a means of proving our preparedness to raise a first grader.

The first sign we encountered gave us pause.

Although we do occasionally go to the library, I think it would be overstatement to describe our visits as frequent. Alden’s face makes clear her disgruntlement at discovering what the parents of first graders are SUPPOSED to be doing.

Her spirits couldn’t be kept down long, however. Soon we discovered another sign, this one purple. Surely THIS one would dispense some advice we were already following.

And, in fact, we DO talk to our children quite often, and we also do our best to listen to what they have to say.

But then we moved onto the black sign. And winced a bit.

While it is true that we don’t technically even HAVE a TV due to the fact that I disconnected our satellite in a moment of self-righteous frugality last winter, we do have streaming Netflix and we are occasionally guilty of handing them the controller, saying “here” and disappearing into the studio for a few hours.

I’d say “absolute limits” and we are not cozy bedfellows.

Which is why one comes to Back to School night after all. Not just to see your kid’s classroom, but to learn and stuff.

Onward to the orange sign. As everyone knows, Robbi takes no pleasure in reading.

The only magazines, newspapers, and books she handles on a regular basis are the ones for which she is drawing pictures.

Because of our natural aversion to books, we were collectively shocked (though none more than Alden) to learn that the right kind of parents are reading them to their children as much as 30 minutes a day.

It was shortly after this photo was taken that Alden asked her teacher if she knew of any families who might be willing to acquire an extra kid.

To preserve our flagging sense of self worth, we took a break from reading the signs and went over to check out Alden’s “bucket” into which a colorful fuzz ball is placed every time she does something good.

It was comforting to see that Alden had been good at least a dozen times since the start of school.

I requested details on the nature of her goodness but got only blank stares in return.

And so we returned to the rules.

We have to allow that our children are exposed to various “interesting experiences” by virtue of proximity to our unpredictable lifestyles. They go to Alaska. They’ve been to Japan. To get to the bathroom they have to venture down an unfinished staircase, through a gauntlet of rickety shelving and through a heavy fire door.

But what about the pink rule? Alas, Alden has never written a shopping list and I’m not sure she has ever attempted to read a restaurant menu. She does, however, make an attempt to read road signs, or at least to scan them for letters (when we are playing Alphabet Bingo on long trips).

And what about the blue rule?

The children do not yet set the table, but they are often encouraged to clear. Further, they are required to clean up the clutter in the living room before launching into unregulated marathons of Netflix streaming.

Admittedly, we do own a variety of books. The problem, of course, is that many of them are written primarily for the amusement of adults.

Basically, there’s nothing that one can’t accomplish when equipped with a scissors, a glue stick, and a box of Crayolas.

Perhaps the evening’s most exciting discovery was the concept of the “mystery number.” Alden had come home talking about it in vague and shifting terms a couple of times, but any attempt we had made to discover the true meaning of the exercise were lost in the swirling winds of six-year-old obfuscation techniques.

Now we DO understand what the mystery number is and how it works, both from a practical and pedagogical perspective. And now we can tell you all about it.

But then we’d have to kill you.

Alden is lucky to have not one, but TWO teachers this year. In addition to classroom admiral Mrs. Hopkins (right), there is Mrs. Iller, who is a teaching assistant currently working on her degree at Washington College.

Alden seems very happy with her school, with her teachers, with her glue stick, and with the mystery numbers.

And so far as we can tell, these are the only metrics that matter.

As we were walking out the door, we saw proof positive that this school year will be (incredibly) “the best.” A seemingly outrageous claim, given the number of schools and the number of years in which schools have been happening.

And yet, it is a claim we are willing to humor. With great anticipation.

If only Robbi and I can rise to the occasion and figure out how to follow the damn rules.