The first day of school

Yes, it's hard for those of you who don't start school until after Labor Day to believe, but Evan started third grade yesterday! The paper I freelance for asked me to write a first person account of the first day of school in our household, and here's what I came up with. Hey, this one's going to be published! :-) Hope you like it, because maybe that means my editors will, too.

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The first day of school is here and it’s magical. A day filled with possibilities and fresh starts and reunions with friends. Pencils are sharpened, notebooks are crisp, and backpacks are free from cracker crumbs and fundraising flyers for the last time all year.

I feel the pull of the magic, but it’s bittersweet. I’m a mom. Whether a first step, first day of school, first date – every first is both a cause for celebration and a reminder that my son’s childhood is fleeting. I remember enough of my own swift journey through Dorothy Hamill haircuts, leg warmers, and Duran Duran to recognize that being a kid doesn’t last long enough.

Summer break didn’t last either, although in some ways that’s a good thing. The extra time together has been special, but summer in South Chandler largely means hibernating indoors or in a swimming pool. Seven weeks later we’ve run out of new ideas and the thrill is gone.

After the initial struggle to get myself out of bed (no more sleeping in past 6:30 a.m.), somehow I fall back easily into the school morning routine: breakfast for the kids, making sure Evan’s clothes actually match, packing lunch, filling up water bottles, reminders about brushing teeth. Surprisingly, Evan falls into the routine, too. Forgotten is last night’s desperate vow never to go back to school again.

I look at my now third grade son, ready for the day. I smile at his one-man homage to Spiderman: shirt, shoes, backpack, lunchbox. I take in his gap-toothed grin, his hesitant brown eyes, his wavy hair grown “medium” length because he likes it that way. In one glance I can see both the baby he once was and a reflection of the man he will become. Then I laugh because that man is wearing a size seven, cherry red Spiderman t-shirt.

Our family is fortunate enough to live just a block away from Hull Elementary, so Evan, preschool brother Bennett, my husband, and I renew our daily pilgrimage and join the throng of kids and parents traveling the greenbelt path.

The day’s magic droops a bit as the hot, humid morning takes its toll. Not surprisingly, the actual drop-off is a bit anticlimactic as our new third-grader spots some friends and eagerly picks up where he left off last spring. We turn back and pass by kindergarten moms fighting tears as their babies miraculously transform into boys and girls. And I hold my own four-year-old baby’s hand a little tighter, silently giving thanks for one more year before those tears are mine.

We begin the quiet walk home, reflective yet eager for air-conditioning. The cicada-filled trees surround us with a monsoon song that somehow fits the morning’s bittersweet mood.

Suddenly, Bennett glances around and asks “Where’s Evan?”

“Remember, he’s back at school today,” I answer.

“Oh.” Then, “I miss Evan.”

Even though we just said goodbye, I miss him, too. But I know that Evan is where he needs to be, that this first day of school and its magic is really about his journey, not about mine. I just hope that someday, when the reflection of the man I saw becomes reality, Evan still wears a cherry red Spiderman t-shirt once in a while. Just not a size seven.