The other morning I was just settling in with coffee and my work when I noticed a mother and a toddler walking by. Well, Mom was walking, carrying a squiggly child dressed in violent pink, and pushing an empty stroller—which is how it generally went for me with my stroller hater.
These two were checking out the chickens in my front garden. Every day the same neighborhood children stop and greet the hens, and I love to watch them. But this was the first time I’d seen the pink pair—and the first day of school. I wondered if they’d just delivered a sibling.
When my older son was in kindergarten at the school just a few blocks away, his dad would drop him off in the morning, and I would hang with baby Seth. We only subjected children to half a day of K back then, so at lunchtime, Seth and I would bundle up to collect Eli. Some days we’d take the stroller, but most days I’d carry him in the backpack. I’d set the pack on the front stoop, strap in the chunk, then sit on the freezing concrete to hoist.
I remember this procedure for two reasons. First, the mitten struggle—which ended suddenly on the first bitter day. Seth had ripped off the mittens, per usual, lighting fast. As soon as we stepped outside, he gasped at the cold and began to fat-cheeked-baby-focus-focus—parents know this look—to get the mittens back on. I watched in astonishment. You’re a baby! You’re not supposed to be this self-aware.
I also remember because he said his first “word” during the hoisting operation. We had a large rocking horse at the time, plastic, suspended on a metal frame with giant coils. Eli would ride like fury, shouting like a banshee. Or, you know, like a cowboy. One day I had strapped Seth into the pack and during the hoist he shouted YEEE-HAW! Great. So I’m the horsey in this scenario.
We have a first day photo of the E-Man—just one. Kindergarten, because I didn’t know the momming rules back then. And social media hadn’t been invented. And there are no first day photos of Seth, because he never went to school. I pulled Eli out after fifth grade.
The other morning, seeing the flood of first-day pictures on Facebook and watching that mom carrying the pink toddler, I messaged Seth to reminisce about the mornings when he was a bit older and we had taken over drop-off duty. When the weather was fine, we’d swing by the fancy-pants grocery store where I always felt underdressed. We’d get an apple fritter and sit outside looking at our library haul, trying not to get the pages sticky. Or we would simply enjoy watching the world go by.
And after reminding him of those days, I sent another message, laughingly apologizing for not having known to take any first-day pictures of him.
He LOL-ed right back. He’s in flight school right now and didn’t think to take a first day snap back in July—but that would have been so excellent! He sent me photos of himself in his uniform, instead. “Please do not share.” Dang it. What’s the point if it’s not shared on social media?!
Ah, well. My children may not have first day photos or high school diplomas, but between them they have four college degrees.
Until I was in college myself, school was torture. I feel no nostalgia. But my grandmother apparently did. Or, at least, she talked about her school days often. She was a terrific storyteller and a terrible singer. But she would croak out a “tune” or two sometimes, which is the only reason I know the old ditty, School Days, School Days, which my brain radio is cruelly playing nonstop this week. When I was a teenager and young woman, my grandmother’s stories of school in the 1920s and 30s seemed as alien and remote as another planet.
And during this global pandemic, it is equally impossible for me to imagine what school must be like for parents and teachers and children right now—alien and remote and yet, right there, walking by my garden. My own children’s school years seem remote, too. “The oak’s an old chestnut now.”
Ordinary life involves so much emotional whiplash these days. That was a normal scene, the mom with the stroller and pink child. Relatable, as the kids say. For the teeniest-tiny second there is balm in those moments.
Until I remember that the experience of dropping off and picking up and being in school—is utterly changed. Normal, but not. How stressed the families must be, sending unvaccinated children to school. Nightmare.
But then yesterday I saw Lily walking home from second grade with her weary mother. I sometimes leave the girls treasures or notes on the chicken coop, and Lily and her sister reciprocate with thank-you paintings. Lily was chattering away, as she does, looking merry in her purple glasses that match mine, skipping and swinging her mask.
What a world.