Head First

I woke up at 6:42 this morning to my son, Sam, shouting, "I'm a first-grader!" Then he got dressed and ate breakfast so fast, it was one of those rare mornings--in fact it's never happened at our house before--that we were ready for the day so early we didn't know what to do with ourselves. But I admit that while I shared some of Sam's exuberance over the first day of first grade, there's that other side of me that's not quite ready for it to happen. And for a long time, while I was trying to get pregnant with the baby who would become Sam--and then throughout his earlier milestones--the first time he ate an olive (6 mos.); the first time he erased one of my stories on the computer (20 mos.); the first time he cheered for the Red Sox (21 mos.)--the idea of his ever reaching first grade seemed as far-fetched as digging to China. But here we are.

So why is this moment so bittersweet? I know that starting first grade is not in the same league as, say, buying your first heavy-metal CD or bringing your first girlfriend home to spend the night, but it comes with those intimations. If first grade got here so quickly, can Sam's first apartment, laden with Red Sox paraphernalia, be far away? 

And there is something truly grown up about first grade. Unlike kindergarten, with naps and a pretend kitchen in the housekeeping corner, this is the formal start of that 15-year progression through what my friend Jay has dubbed the education-industrial complex, whereby life is ordered around the school year. Memory doesn't kick in in first grade, but it's close. While you might have the odd recollection from when you were four, you tend to catalog what happens by whether you were in first grade or fourth or twelfth. Maybe that's why I have such a snapshot in my mind of my own first day of school--spindly legs sticking out from a too-short dress with a ladybug applique and, on top, a too-short Pixie haircut. 

Time moves too damn fast. It outpaces consciousness in much the same way that light outpaces sound. Arriving home from vacation last night to a yard of dead plants, stacks of mail, and suitcases filled with dirty clothes, there were a few seconds when I forgot that I was 48 and living in my own townhouse with a husband, two kids, and a dog. In that short span, I felt relieved that my mom would take care of the mess. That's when I remembered, Oh, I'm the mom.