School Days

I don't recall my first day of school, but my parents do.  Numerous times my mother has recounted that the four-year-old version of myself trotted onto the big yellow school bus ready to take on the world . . . or at least kindergarten . . . and never looked back.

My father, on the other hand, hopped in the car and followed the bus the mile up the road to my elementary school and peeked into my classroom to assure himself I was really okay.

(I try to imagine that now, when you have to pass a gauntlet of locked doors, buzzers, cameras, and vigilant administrative assistants checking photo ID's just to pick your kid up from preschool.  Both beautiful and terrifying, those innocent days of yore.)

This is not the story I will recount to Ranita 20 years hence.  Our day was not quite so sepia-colored.

The kids slept in late, which was fine because he has afternoon pre-K . . . and only 2 days a week due to his doting mama's conviction that 4 is too young to hand him over to someone else 5 days a week. 

Ranita woke up grumpy.  Mama woke up grouchy.  Chinchita woke up unwillingly as her brother had jumped on her in bed while she was still sound asleep.

The Castrataros need their sleep.  This was not an auspicious beginning.

The rest of the morning was a head-spinning vacillation between war and peace.

War: Children disagree--at the top of their lungs--on what to have for breakfast, pancakes or cereal.  (Really?!)

Peace: Children color ("do schoolwork," my son calls it) while I clean up the kitchen.

War: Children move from coloring to glittering, dumping vast amounts of glimmering gorgeousness on the table, the floor, their half-naked bodies, and our two furry beast-dogs.  (Mommy cancels the remainder of art class and again cleans the kitchen.)

War: Both kids have poop accidents.  No more words necessary.

Peace: The kids watch a Signing Time video.  (They're having a sale, by the way . . . worth every penny!)

War:  Lunch is not to my son's liking, so he heads off to school with a delicious snack in his lunchbox and half an orange in his stomach.  (Does the child not realize that food is necessary for a successful day of learning?!  Has his mother taught him NOTHING in four years???)

It is as my son refuses to get out of his bunk bed and get dressed that I realize what all this chaos is about: the poor thing is scared of his first day of school.

It makes sense: the need for "schoolwork," the angry outbursts at sister and me, the inability to eat, the refusal to get dressed.  If I were four and afraid, that's what I'd be doing: trying my best to be so poorly-behaved that my mom put me in time-out for a full year and deprived me of a first-rate education. 

Nice try.

I sit down with him and do some cuddling.  I tell him it's okay to be scared . . . everyone is afraid starting something new . . . but I promise he will have a blast and make a ton of friends.

He's not buying it.

Eventually I have the kid dressed, shod, and ready to go.  I pull his cold food out of the fridge and pack it in his Thomas lunchbox.

Poof!

Something happens in his brain.  Don't ask me what.  I have no idea.  He slips into his Star Wars backpack, grabs his lunch, and heads out the door calling, "Come on, Mom!  We're going to be late!"

Are you kidding me????

And from that point on, my son didn't look back.  He waltzed off with his teacher as if she were Cleopatra and I were the scullery maid.  I managed to steal a hug and a kiss, and off he went.  I was proud . . . and sad . . . and all the crazy emotions Moms experience at a landmark event such as this.

Until my daughter started to cry, "I want Ranita!"

Good grief.

I gave up my hopes for a couple hours of her napping and me writing.  We stopped at Lickety Splits and had ice cream deliciousness.  I finally got her home for a nap only to have to wake her up to go pick up her brother.

He walked out with a happy grin, a homework page he couldn't wait to complete, and a bunch of nameless friends he was excited about.

So began my son's foray into the world of organized education.  Good luck, my son . . . enjoy!