This day has finally come. It has been much anticipated, and deeply feared. I have been urging it to come quickly in much the same way I would wish for Root Canal Day to get here--just so it would be over. The drama is done. At least for me. My daughter has finally started school.I am pushing back the little voice in my head that is saying, "You failed." I step on it, and slam the door. But still, every now and ...
This day has finally come. It has been much anticipated, and deeply feared. I have been urging it to come quickly in much the same way I would wish for Root Canal Day to get here--just so it would be over. The drama is done. At least for me. My daughter has finally started school.I am pushing back the little voice in my head that is saying, "You failed." I step on it, and slam the door. But still, every now and again I hear, "You failed at homeschooling." My rational mind comforts me with reminders of all of our successes over the last eight years, and the very proof in the pudding of my lovely young daughter. But still, I wonder if we stopped the race before we crossed the finish line. Forfeit.
The morning started like no other morning in this household. It was dim. I had to actually put on a light while showering. The skylights need a replacement bulb, I'm thinking. Also, there was no familiar yelling to get the children up as there is much later every other morning. They seemed to sense the urgency in the dimness and they responded without much prompting. It felt like there was a plane to catch, but with no vacation at the other end.
I quickly made scrambled eggs and put them in the oven to keep warm. This morning I insisted on at least five minutes for all of us to sit down together before we went our separate ways. My husband was driving our son to his school (as he attends school only one day a week), and I was to bring our daughter to her first day of Kinderg...uh, eighth grade.
I set the table in the backyard, and was greeted with "Ugh!" when they saw the Book. It is a well-worn, thin, colorful paperback called "Miss Bindergarten Gets Ready for Kindergarten." I had it propped up at the table on display. I have read it to my children on the first day of school every year since they actually were in Kindergarten. Each year gets progressively more ludicrous, but someday I know that they will see that book somewhere and pick it up and exclaim to whomever is nearby, "Oh! I remember this book! My mother read it to us every year!" Their eyes will tear up, and they will get a warm, fuzzy feeling inside.
"Mom! I already had my first day! I already had to listen to that this year!" Fast forward to the present moment. My son had a point. Poor kid.
"Well, I'm reading it to your sister now." At least she knew better than to protest past the eye-rolling. I began, "It is the first day of eighth grade, and oh! oh! oh!..." At least I got the slightest smile at that. I rushed from Adam Krupp (the alligator) through Zach Blair (the zebra), and we were all relieved when Mrs. Beighthgrade was finally all ready for Eighth Grade.
Daddy came out with the toaster waffles and I tossed one on each kid's plate. My son's landed center on his plate, but went skidding off onto the concrete. Daddy started to protest my tossing skills, until I picked it up and flung it into the yard. It arched beautifully across the lawn like a latticed Frisbee. More giggling. It was my attempt to make up for force-fed picture books.
After a few minutes, I noticed my daughter had stopped eating. Feeling my own nausea from eating so early, I sympathized. Despite all the silliness, she summed it up well, "I feel nauseated."
Like most children, I always had "butterflies" in my stomach on the first day of school. It wasn't until about third grade that I realized it was a figure of speech. I just assumed they digested somehow. In fifth grade, I had the usual butterflies on the first day. And the second day. And the third. By the fifth day, my mother was getting worried because I actually had to run out of class and spew on the gravel. Fortunately, her investigative mind figured out it was the new horse-pill vitamins that we were taking since school started. No more purple pills for Pam.
This morning, our nausea subsided quickly and we got on the road in record time, yacking about anything but school. The early morning fog and traffic were foreign to us. We parked and carried the huge bags with all of her supplies. I think we were both relieved to see that everyone else had huge bags lined up along the walkway too. Amanda was greeted with a few hugs, and I said hello to a few moms, and then I was pretty much dismissed. I still decided to pull my daughter around the corner and give her a hug. Rather, I hugged her but didn't feel the love back, so I let it pass. I envied all the other parents of younger children snapping photos and taking videos. This was not happening over by the junior high children. Then a girl said to my daughter, "Tuck in your shirt! Quickly! You'll get a ticket!" Heavy sigh.
Since my daughter wanted nothing to do with me (understandably), I went to my car. With nothing better to do, I sobbed for a bit. Then I sobbed some more. I know just how long I can cry before my eyes turn red. Fortunately I had one Kleenex left in my purse and faked myself all better.
As I sat there, I noticed all the children lining up for assembly. There were multitudes of parents watching, so I said, dadnamit, I'm there. I even brought my camera and snapped a picture of my daughter from behind. No flash, of course. We all said a prayer and the Pledge (with God and everything). They even called up the new students for a special bag they had prepared for each.
Then I went into the hall for the parent coffee. I spent a little while chatting with other parents, and felt very welcome. As I penned my name in for volunteering, I realized that I am as much a part of this small private school as my daughter. After all this lovely chatter and grand welcome, I went into the school to be fingerprinted so I could volunteer. I have been assimilated.
Walking back to my car, I noticed the eighth graders by now were out by their lockers organizing them. I went to sit with another mom to spy from a distance. We had a nice chat. She was hanging around because she had a new Kindergartner. We had a lot in common. Finally it was time to leave well enough alone.
So I sit here this morning, with both of my children in school for the first time. I know I need to get ready to teach my son tomorrow, and I am thankful to still be homeschooling, but our family is forever different. Or rather, we are now the same. We are the same as everyone else: rushing around in the morning, carpooling, volunteering, and doing homework at night. Homeschooling is a lifestyle, but now we are a mixed home and need to live also by the outside rules. No more morning dental appointments, or long weekends on vacation. No more unilateral decisions about what or how to teach my daughter. I have passed the baton. The high blonde pigtails have become one low independent ponytail.
I'm going to keep working on that little voice that is taunting me about forfeiting the race. I'll keep stomping on it with every step towards the finish line.
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