For the first time in 17 years, I’m not buying school
supplies. There’s no graphing calculator needed this year. We have long
forgotten the new pack of Crayola 64, the big box with the pencil
sharpener. No color-coordinated 1-inch
notebooks, no extra-long twin bed sheets, no green and gold gym shorts.
I returned something to a store recently and saw a young
woman and her mother ahead of me in the checkout line. Both wore red and white
Ball State University shirts. The daughter held a list, and mom pushed a cart
full of the usual paraphernalia for college rookies.
The ringing of the school bell makes me reflect. My parents,
both teachers, hyped going to school for weeks before I started kindergarten in
1962.
“When you are five,” my parents said, “You get to go to
school.”
On my fifth birthday,
six weeks before the official first day, I was utterly indignant that I had
apparently been misled.
All dressed in my red gingham “first day of school dress”
from Montgomery Wards, I threw an absolute fit. I had been had.
My father walked me to the nearby elementary school.
Pointing to the empty parking lot, row of unfilled bike
racks and playground equipment, he said, “You can see there are no little boys
and girls here.”
Somehow I felt cheated and duped, having to wait more than a
month for this glorious, awe-inspiring event.
I retained the same enthusiasm for school every year,
excitement about new friends, clothing, activities, and excitement about
everything except the actual work.
Well, don’t we all know that enthusiasm is at least part of the battle?
My parents took the requisite first day of school pictures,
and we did the same with our son. We
moved into our current home the summer before our son started first grade. What
fun to look at pictures in progression the years.
Looking back, I noted the increasing contempt in his
expression. By the time he was a senior
one could almost hear, “Mom, why do I
have to do this again?” as he raced out the door for school.
When our son started kindergarten we lived in another
house. It was all I could do not to
chase the bus around the corner. Could I
follow the bus to Chandler Elementary School?
How could this little boy navigate the hallways of a large
elementary school? Half his day was
spent with typically developing students, while the other half was spent in
developmental kindergarten. What would
happen to him at lunch? Could he carry his own tray?
I wanted to go to the school and stalk him during the day,
but I was convinced the Chandler police would arrest me if I trespassed on
school grounds.
Things got easier. By
second grade, our son was in a classroom with typically developing students.
By high school he was a pro and drove himself to school the
last two years.
Then came college. When we dropped our son off at college in
the wicked city, I’m not sure who was more anxious.
When it was time to go, our son walked us halfway to the
parking garage, and posed for a picture next to the front gate of his
university. I lingered and hugged him again, and finally my husband said, “We
really need to go.” He didn’t want to leave him, either. He was being strong, with a stiff upper lip.
We drove out of the city and west to Indiana, not speaking a
word for hours until we got to the hotel.
A few tears were shed that day.
The turmoil that accompanies each school year is a hassle. Like everything else in life, it is
temporal and to be savored.
Now our son is in a different stage, and so are we, as
freewheeling empty nesters. The house is
quieter, and we are getting used to the solitude. We miss our son every day, yet he is happy
with a full life of his own.
As corny as it sounds, I think about an old episode of “The
Andy Griffith Show” where Opie raised abandoned baby birds and lets them fly
free. Opie tells his dad he misses the
birds. Andy notices the happy sounds of
birds chirping and tells Opie, “My how the trees are full.”
May you appreciate your baby birds, and then know the
fullness of the trees. © 2012
