Back to School

I love the idea of an unopened box of crayons, the potential and colorful newness that the yellow box holds, the waft of wax that meets your nose.  I won't deny that when I'm at Target, I like to stroll the office supply isle and admire the trendiest 3-ring binders and cute folders to tuck inside them.  I remember my own shiny folders from middle school, the gelatinous hearts and unicorns of the Lisa Frank collection; another folder had a shiny, galloping horse across a rainbow with the scribbled word "Quicksilver" jaunting across the top.  How would I decorate my locker? I wonder now.  Would it be covered with TeenBeat Bieber posters? 

Yet when I hear the chugging whir of a school bus accelerating, or the high pitch squeal of its breaks, there's a part of me that panics.  Maybe it's an ingrained fear that was practiced daily for twelve years: Did I miss the buss?  What will I do if I miss the bus?!  Or perhaps the little flip that my stomach does is reticent of the anxiety of what a very long day at school will hold, academically, and most of all, socially. I liked school, I was good at it, I was involved in a lot of extracurriculars.  But man oh man, I am so glad that I am finally a grown-up.

On Tuesday, two of Oliver's friends at daycare started Kindergarten, a boy and a girl.  The little girl was shaking on Tuesday when her mom dropped her off.  By Wednesday, she was sobbing, glued to her mom's leg, begging her not to go.  On Thursday, the little boy who had started school sat on the staircase, his head hung low, refusing to talk.  I spoke to a mother at work last week who talked about how her little guy didn't like his preschool.  That same day, my coworker told me about her pre-teen son who had such anxiety about starting school the next day that he had to sleep in bed with them.  Yet another coworker told me about a mother who, having dropped off her firstborn at kindegarten, threw up in the parking lot out of her own anxiety.

And that will be me.  I can hardly stomach the idea of sending Oliver off to school for the first time.  I will be throwing up, I will be sitting with my head hung low.  And it would not be surprising if I am found with my arms around Oliver, clinging to him and begging him not to go.  And wishing, for once, that I was not in fact a grown-up.