Last week several people asked me how the first day of school went, and whether I cried. I could only report we were still waiting. My older son started school this week. (Kindergarteners start a week later than everyone else in our district.)
The day finally arrived. I made him wear a shirt I liked so I could get a nice first-day-of-school picture. He pouted for the pictures.
Then he protested about getting on the bus. The other five children who were starting kindergarten lined up to board the bus like it was just an ordinary day. We knew who they were because we had time for introductions before the bus arrived. When it did arrive, my son planted his feet in one spot. I had to tug on his arm a bit as I led him to the end of the line. He looked at me with tears in his eyes. “I don’t like this shirt,” he told me one last time. I blinked back a few tears of my own.
“Now go on,” I said. He stomped up the steps holding both handrails, without looking back. The tinted windows prevented us from seeing him once he was inside, but my younger son and I waved in case he was looking.
At home, with one boy gone, things were not the same. I did a bit of house cleaning, but was worthless for any activity that required thought.
But we’re all getting used to the new schedule now. A schedule with one fledgling out of the nest for a substantial part of each day.