Back to School

It is only mid-August. It is much too soon to go back to school.

Yet that is where today found us. Well, not "us" so much as "them." I am certainly a participant in the back-to-school frenzy, but only in a peripheral way.

Last week was all about getting registered, collecting schedules, and shopping for school supplies. The girls are all outfitted with new tennis shoes, clothes, paper and pencils.

And I have to say, there is nothing quite like buying new school supplies. Those first few days, when the pencils are sharp, the crayons unbroken, the boxes shiny, and the folders uncreased, those days are the best. That feeling of writing with a brand-new sharpened pencil for the very first time is unbeatable.

Too bad that new school supplies feeling doesn't last past the first week.

Alison and Maddie headed off by themselves at 7.30 this morning. I watched them as they walked through the backyard to the driveway, where they hopped in the VW and Alison drove them off for their first day.

Then I drove Sylvia to her first day. She didn't seem too fazed by the new school, new teacher, and new kids; I felt somewhat differently. I was able to hide my sudden burst of emotion as we said goodbye at the classroom door, and I don't think she was any the wiser. She walked into her room - it was clear that parents were not encouraged to linger - and I hung around for a minute, peeking around the doorway. But I hated to look like a desperado, or an over-protective mother, so I made my way out.

Slowly. And sadly.

Truth be told, I miss having the girls at home. My days are long now. Sure, I get stuff done, but frankly, I would welcome the distraction of having the girls around.

The contractor who is doing our bathroom smiled. He said I was the first mother he'd ever known who seemed sad, rather than happy, to see her children go back to school.

Sylvia's bus was nearly 45 minutes late coming home today. I knew the buses would be behind schedule. But I worried, concerned that she was on the wrong bus, left behind at school, or just riding and riding, crying for me, feeling lost. I waited on the porch, then finally came inside to get a glass of water. Sure enough, I heard the door slam.

Sylvia was fine. The bus driver, she said with a sigh, was new and had no idea where she was going. Sylvia was tired - and annoyed - but hardly the crestfallen little girl I was worried about. She was a confident fourth-grader who wasn't worried at all.

They're growing up. Two years from now it won't just be the first day of school, but dropping Alison off at a faraway campus. If I have the blues about the cross town trek, how will I handle that?