I remember the first first day like it was ... well ... yesterday.
On the first first day, my daughter wore a red dress with a white collar and smocking at the top. She had on black patent leather Mary Janes and ankle socks with frilly trim. She had a lunchbox, a tiny backpack, and a fleece jacket with an appliqued dachshund head on one side, tail on the other, and elongated body stretching around the back. The zipper pull was a quilted bone. Her hair was perfect.
Oddly enough, I remember what I was wearing too. Black wool trousers and boots, plus a very cool sweater that was black and tan and white with asymmetrical wooden buttons and a sort of primitive fish pattern. I got it from some museum catalog and it was cooler than it sounds, really. Anyway, I don't know where it went. (Besides out of style, I suppose.) Meanwhile, my daughter's dress is carefully preserved in an attic closet waiting for some future child's first day of preschool.
I repeat, "First day of preschool." It feels like yesterday. But, at the same time, no matter how well I remember every little detail, it feels about a hundred years ago.
Sundance Preschool was in a brand new building about a mile or so from our house. It was bright and sunny with large classrooms and a playground out back. My daughter was so excited. We took about a million pictures (this was back when everything was still analog, so you had to take extra shots to make sure something came out), and the whole family (minus the dog — then again, I suppose he was represented on her jacket) drove over together.
I was just fine, happy even, imagining how my little daughter would love school the way I had. The future seemed bright and full of promise. We had years and years together ahead of us. We checked her in and went into her classroom. There were lilliputian tables and chairs, a reading corner, easels and paint, tiny cubbies ... and a coat hook with each child's name neatly printed above it.
That, my friends, is when I lost it.
My daughter would probably tell you that I've been losing it on a quite regular basis ever since.
This morning was that same daughter's first day of senior year. All I can say, truly, is ...
WTF?
How is this possible? How can she be that old? (How can I be that old?)
She woke up at 5:00 am. (Yeah, like that's going to happen again this year!) She wore her senior "We're Kind of a B16 Deal" tee and a pair of shorts. I packed a nice lunch for her and after a little (a very little) attention to hair and makeup, we took a couple of quick "First Day" pictures and she was out of here. No need for breakfast; she and her BFFs were going to IHOP after the official first day senior drive-by.
Each graduating class of our town's high school takes part in this time-honored tradition twice. (I think it's just twice; I hope it's just twice.) The junior girls drive through the town honking and screaming the morning after the prior class's graduation. And those same girls, now officially seniors, do it all again the first day back at school in September.
My husband decorated our antique red Miata with racing stripes and a big number "16" on the driver door. It was by far the flashiest vehicle out there. But, as I videotaped the convoy this morning, I was happy to notice that my daughter and her bestie stayed belted in their seats even as they raced through the town. Whether that was fear of me or of the town police, I'll never know. But, I was glad on't.
Next on the agenda is the gauntlet outside the school. Historically, the seniors have taunted the incoming underclassmen and women. This year, however, our rules-happy principal ordained that there is to be no teasing and no touching — excepting "handshakes extended in the spirit of friendship and warm welcome."
(Excuse me while I go choke to death on laughter.)
(All right, I'm back now.)
Classes for seniors don't start until mid-morning, so my offspring and her posse will have time for a nutritious breakfast at the International House of Pancakes (is there a National House of Pancakes?) before their day — and presumably their education — starts in earnest.
This morning was my daughter's last first day. She and the other seniors only have 20-minute classes along with forms to fill out and an assembly, so the day should fly by for her.
Almost as fast as the last 15 years have flown by for me.
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This morning, per usual, I did a 4-mile fitness walk through our historic "Old Town," down by the harbor, along the beach, up through a pretty wooded neighborhood, and back home. It's hot and muggy now, but with the sun just coming up, it was still fairly cool. (BTW, if this daily walking thing makes me sound too healthy, rest assured I make up for it later in the day with white wine and chocolate. And sometimes cheese.)
About twenty minutes into my walk, I heard car horns and shrieking teenagers. The cacophony was coming from "the Neck," an attached peninsula filled with yacht clubs, private docks, and eensy-weensy ten-bedroom "summer cottages." The noise drifted across the harbor and, although I knew where it was coming from, it sounded like it was right next to me.
Soon, it was.
I stepped into a hedge just as a parade of thirty cars came flying around a corner. Horns blaring, noisemakers, drums, and a couple of fearless (and/or stupid) girls literally hanging out windows. They clapped and waved and yelled "WOOOO HOOOO" when they saw me.
It's the first day of school and these revelers are ... seniors.
My daughter, just a lowly junior, was still asnooze. For a moment, I worried about where she'll be and what she'll be doing (and whose car she'll be in) next year. But, I try to say in the moment. There are plenty of worries to deal with in the here and now. Never mind the there and then.
This year promises to be difficult and dramatic. Supposedly, colleges look at junior year as the best indicator of how a student will do after high school. (I guess freshman and sophomore years are just the warmup, and senior year — if this morning's spectacle is any indication — is a total write-off.) We'll ... I mean, she'll ... I mean we'll be juggling two AP courses, a full workload of honors and college prep, plus horse shows and training, and two part-time jobs. We'll start visiting schools in earnest. And, naturally, her social life will comprise high highs and low lows. Why aim for moderation when you're almost seventeen?
We'll have plenty of late nights of angst, I have no doubt. But, I expect we'll survive. Most families do.
Therefore ... it's a bright and shiny new school year, and I for one am happy to have it arrive already. (This summer was a bit of a bear. House guests and homework and SAT Prep, oh my!)
So, happy new year to all. I wish you good friends in the cafeteria, teachers with a sense of humor, and a bouquet of freshly sharpened pencils.
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Nothing strikes more fear in a high schooler's heart than these four little words:
First. Day. Of. School.
How times have changed, n'est-ce pas?
My now teen daughter started preschool right before her third birthday. She had been in family daycare (I worked at an ad agency in Boston then), but was "moving up." On that very first day (the first of many firsts), she wore a red plaid dress with a smocked bodice, puffed sleeves and crisp white collar. She had on ankle socks and Mary Janes.
How do I remember this? Her first first day of school picture is on my mother's refrigerator.
Along with the subsequent twelve since.
She was so excited. Her father and I dropped her off with her tiny backpack and her little lunchbox. Of course, we had to capture the moment for posterity. And thus began a tradition shared by proud parents everywhere.
Looking back on all of the "first day of school" pictures, there are fancy hairdos (conceived by my daughter, executed by her mother), favorite footwear (red sparkly Dorothy shoes one year, cowgirl boots the next), classic dresses that were soon replaced by syndicated character clothes (remember Bratz?) and eventually by a sense of casual coolness, that belied the young wearer's anxiety.
Yesterday, the outfit was carefully choreographed not to look like an "outfit." (If the amount of time my daughter spent in front of her mirror prior to coming down for breakfast is any indication, a lot of effort went into looking so effortless.) Cargo shorts and a loose tank top with a mystical design on it, a pair of Toms flat espadrilles. Hair pulled away from her face with a clip.
She grumbled her way through breakfast ("I'm not hungry") and was about to be picked up by a friend's mom. "Wait," I said, looking for a camera. "Picture, picture!"
I'm fortunate that my mother keeps her refrigerator gallery up-to-date (not just with my daughter's pictures but with my young niece's as well). I can use "Grandmama" as my excuse. In truth, though, I treasure these photos just as much.
"Ugh, use your phone," my daughter said, rolling her eyes. We went out to the patio.
"Here, hold your backpack so it's obvious that it's the first day of school. Stand up straight. Okay, now, smile. S-m-i-l-e!" I know I sounded ridiculous, but there are times when it doesn't matter. I shot a couple of pictures in quick succession.
As is her way, she immediately grabbed the phone out of my hands. "Ugh," she groaned, as she hit delete, delete, delete as quickly as possible. "I look disgusting!"
As you know, I am a devoted mother and can be a bit partial. I adore my daughter and personally find her beautiful at any time of any day. That said, while a perfect stranger might not be as enthralled as I am, I seriously doubt anybody would use the word "disgusting" to describe her. I shot again.
"Disgusting!" she repeated. I'm thinking maybe she was out the day they learned that word. We wrestled for the phone and I won. Defeated, she begged me, "Just don't post it on Facebook!"
Our delightful first day of school ritual over, she went off to face sophomore year and I went up to my office to work. I looked forward to hearing about her classes and teachers that afternoon. The first day wasn't so bad, really.
Or as my daughter puts it, "1 down, 179 to go."
After what felt like the shortest summer on record, I dropped my daughter off at high school this morning. Well, technically I dropped her off at the community center down the hill from the high school. It may have been raining. She may have been nervous. But, she sure as Shinola wasn't going to be seen getting out of her mom's car.
C'mon, she's not a kid anymore.
She had many many questions. Were the seniors (who were driving around town honking their horns early this morning) going to pick on the freshmen? Was the Honors English teacher really going to give them a quiz on David Copperfield? Should she have worn shorts instead of jeans? What if she got lost between Bio and Music in a Digital World? What if she didn't know anyone in her classes? What if she didn't have anyone to sit with at lunch?
What if ... ? What if ... ? What if ... ?
I had just one question. Where did the years go?
We dropped her off at school for the first time twelve years ago. I have a picture of my tiny girl in an adorable "Back to School" dress with a little backpack and patent leather Mary Janes. She was thrilled to start preschool, and I pretty much kept it together. (The one thing that triggered a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes was the sight of a row of little coat hooks with names above them outside her classroom.)
The picture-taking (if not the lump and tears) remains a tradition. I always say, "Wait, I have to take a picture for Grandma," but in reality the photo is as much for me as anyone. This morning's was shot on our back patio next to the tomato plants that are already dwindling away — another sign that summer is over. My daughter looked cool in a "High school? No big deal," kinda way. Jeans, a loose geometric top over a skinny tank, multicolored Converse sneakers. She's wearing a barrette on one side. Our attempt to give her poker straight hair a bit of a wave by braiding it last night was pretty much an epic fail.
Nevertheless, she was there bright and early, gathering some friends and her courage and ready (or "ready or not") for it all to begin.
One thing I have learned is that it is absolutely of no use whatsoever to relate your teen's current trials and tribulations to your own history. (Or, should I say "ancient history?") I try to remember if I was nervous about starting high school myself. But our experiences are not apples-to-apples.
She's going into a fairly large, suburban, co-ed school. I went to a quite small test school in a big city, which had been single-sex for more than a century.
She's an active, free spirit who would rather muck out a stall than crack open a textbook. I was a bit of a nerd who preferred classes to practically anything else. Honestly. Family lore often recounts my sorrow when other kids, friends from my mother's midwest home state, got to go back to school two weeks before I did. I would sit on my grandmother's front porch and watch the school bus go by and pout.
There are so many things I hope she'll learn in the next four years. Specific subject matter, of course. How to ace her SATs and get into a great college, certainly. But, more importantly, that cliques matter less than individual people. That you can try new things. That maybe you are good at something that you never even imagined. That you can work toward goals. That you can solve problems, make smart choices sometimes and learn from mistakes others. That if you focus on all of this, your confidence will catch up to your competence, and things like the first day of high school won't be quite so scary anymore.
Were I to explain any of the above to my daughter, she would have even less faith in my ability to relate to her life than she already does.
Which, let me assure you, ain't much. After all, she's in high school now. She's not a kid anymore.
