I am happy to report that the first day of school went off without a hitch…at least not a major one. Zoe was missing her first grade teacher, which made for a few humorous, albeit dramatic moments. Fortunately, as of this writing, she now loves her second grade teacher, and first grade is just a memory.
I can’t help looking at the differences and the similarities between my daughter’s second grade journey, and my adventures during the same period of my life some 40 or so years ago.
When I was in second grade, like Zoe, I had a teacher who was a little more serious than my first grade teacher. Mrs. Williams was nice, but no nonsense. Second grade was less about play and more about actually learning something. I also remember Mrs. Williams rocked a short `fro reminiscent of Diahann Carroll during the later years of Julia (sorry all kind readers under 45).
When I was in second grade, it was the beginning of a lifelong loathing of anything having to do with mathematics. After a brief rough spot last year, Zoe is slowly becoming a numbers whiz.
When I was in second grade, all we had to do was show up. Now, Zoe and her contemporaries have to come supplied with their own stores of tissue, hand sanitizer, Lysol spray and Clorox wipes!
When I was in second grade, as far as I knew, there were no gatecrashers. Now, our school district has hired residency verification officers. These newly minted public servants are charged with going after those who, through fake addresses, have registered in our school system. We are fortunate to be a part of a decent school district that is, unfortunately, surrounded by a couple that aren’t so decent.
When I was in second grade, both parents had jobs that didn’t allow them to take time off to follow the school bus and walk me in on my first day. Zoe’s parents are fortunate enough to be able to follow the bus and provide the necessary escort like the secret service contingent assigned to Malia and Sasha.
The first day of school is as much of an event for parents as it is for the kids. Especially when one of those parents is a reflective, sentimental old fart like me. Will it always be this way? Will we be following the bus next year, or when Zoe begins middle school?
Down the road, I wonder if Mrs. McCullough will sign me out of the home for a few hours so we can walk Zoe into her first day of medical school?