- September 10, 2024
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After the first day of school this week, my 6-year-old son, Luke, dropped a piece of paper on my lap.
“You’re supposed to read that,” he said.
I looked at the paper, which contained information from the physical education department at his school.
I was indignant. I thought: I’m the parent! Why do I have homework?!
Later, my wife, Hailey, filled out more forms for Luke and his 9-year-old sister, Kennedy. I was glad I had kept my complaints to myself; otherwise, I might have been recruited to help, as punishment.
Kennedy and Luke bubbled with stories of every detail from the first day: where they stood in line, which classmates they knew in which classes. Hailey asked more and more questions, savoring every detail, making Kennedy and Luke feel like celebrities. In our family, they were celebrities — the most interesting people in the world.
Luke climbed on his mother’s lap and told her all about his cup of Jitter Juice, a Sprite-like drink his teacher had given each student to get the first-day jitters out.
“Did the juice work?” I asked.
“No,” Luke said, full of first-grade wisdom. “I didn’t have the jitters.”
He explained in great detail how he had walked down the correct hallway, navigating past the kindergarten classes with ease.
Meanwhile, our oldest daughter, Ellie, was less enthusiastic about her first day of high school.
“It wasn’t too interesting, to be honest,” she said without a hint of a smile. “We went over stuff about the school.” Then, she added, tragically, “Stuff I already knew.”
The summer was officially over.
Days earlier, over the weekend, we had celebrated with a trip to a water park. Kennedy, to my surprise, wanted to go on the tallest, scariest slides, including one that begins with the victim stepping onto a plexiglass trap door. When a teenage safety employee pushes a red button, the trap door disappears, and you free fall for 15 feet or so as water blasts you in the eyes.
“Are you sure you want to go on this one?” I asked Kennedy, but really I was talking to myself.
She grinned and nodded, and so we waited in line. Then she asked, “Are you writing about this in your column?”
I told her I was planning to write about the first day of school, but I would try my best to fit it in.
The trap door opened, and down the chute I went, beginning another 180 days of not enough sleep, stressing about my children’s stress, and mundane moments I hope to never forget.
