Izzy took to her new school like a fish to water. I, on the other hand, am still in shock. After the dreamy childhood innocence of preschool, my daughter now talks like a sailor and sings Hillary Duff songs. She's four and a half going on fourteen. I feel psychotically protective and at the same time want her to toughen up as quickly as possible lest her little spirit get crushed.

The first week of camp Izzy came home and called me a "fucking freak." Hello? I asked her where she heard it, and she said all the boys at school call each other that. She is around a lot of older kids at the camp. I said, "You know 'fucking' is not a nice word, so why would fucking freak be okay?" The few weeks since have been peppered with salty little anecdotes and sayings that would make most adults blush. I try not to react too strongly (I fear if she knows how much it bugs me it will be her next weapon) and say calmly, "There's a nicer way to say that."

Then Izzy started filling me in on what they serve for snack. I was deeply disturbed. You can't even turn on the news these days without hearing about skyrocketing childhood obesity and diabetes rates, yet they may as well be pouring refined sugar and scooping lard onto the table in front of them. Snack in one day can consist of chocolate pudding, Oreos, fruit punch, and Pop Tarts.

I want so badly to not be my hippy mother that I agonized over whether to say something to the head Rec Leader. I don't want to be the crazy mom that feeds her children minimal refined sugar and bleached flour, but I am! My parents brainwashed me. I can't help it! So I went into school and said very calmly, very sweetly, Stop poisoning my daughter! Just kidding. I asked where they get their snacks, and the Rec Leader confirmed my suspicions: they have an account with Sysco. They have to purchase their food from them. Sysco doesn't do granola.

The worst part for me as a parent is the peer pressure. It kills me to watch. As parents, we can't help but internalize and personalize the things our children go through. I hated public school. I had a horrible time of it, being the OCD child of hippies in whitey Republican land, which is why I'll never send Izzy to school with "special" snacks from home instead of letting her eat sugar cubes with the rest of the kids. I used to pine for white bread and Kraft singles while I ate my oily peanut butter on whole wheat. I just wanted to be like everyone else. My parents and my short-wired brain set me apart and labeled me spooky. Let Izzy fit in, if that's what she wants.

What I want is to home school her when I hear the things other kids say. Girls are the worst. You'd think they were cat fighting on Dynasty instead of playing in the schoolyard. They don't like her dress or her hair, or they actually discuss whose parent drives the nicest car. They are four years old for Christ's sake! The boys call her "kindergarten baby," a stupid girl, or ask to see her underpants. They call each other "fucking freaks." It's like sending her to Sodom five days a week.

Her stories make me feel panicked, but I know I must remain calm. I keep saying "walk away" (like I would love to), but I want her to adapt, too. I know this is only the beginning. She is a reactive, sensitive, hyper, social, eager-to-please child. None of these are necessarily bad things, but they can be used against her in a pack mentality. I want her to be a leader or at least unique. When someone doesn't like her dress, I want her to say, "Well, I like it," and shrug. I want her to be content and confident, all the things I never was with my peers. I want her to be happier than I was as a child.

It's not all bad, this new-fangled school. Izzy came home today and said she had a favorite new movie, Grease. "OH MY GOD THAT'S MY FAVORITE I KNOW ALL THE WORDS!" was the first honest-to-God thing out of my mouth. I am not ashamed to say I still know every word of every song, own the record, and saw the movie at the theater for my tenth birthday. I proceeded to sing several hits from the soundtrack loudly and off-key while Izzy pranced about. Later I thought, "Don't they say 'shit' in that movie?" but it really doesn't matter.

They also take field trips. Izzy got to go to Golf World SunSplash or some such place the other day. She had the time of her life. She came back brown as a bean (where was the sunscreen?) and minus one pair of underwear. They made her throw away her lunch (no outside food allowed) so she could eat corndogs and drink pink "lemonade." She explained somewhere in the changing room her underwear got misplaced. "Please don't be mad," she pleaded. I wasn't at all. I wanted to tell her lost panties were nothing in the greater scheme of things.

I considered other avenues: private school, Montessori grade school, even sending the little heathen to Catholic school but settled on our local public school in the end. Yes, it is free, a big deal maker, and yes, all her friends are going there, but that wasn't all of it. I pictured her being happy there, and when things get tough, I thought maybe she'd at least learn some life skills. As badly as I love to protect her from cliques and Twinkies and nasty boys all her life, I can't. It's sink or swim out there, and I may as well try and teach her to tread water, if not some fancy strokes.