Our first day was slightly less picturesque. We spent the entire weekend at the lake, and got home just in time to realize—crap! We forgot about shoes! We’ve lived the longest summer on record almost exclusively in flip flops, but, alas, school uniforms require closed toes and (eek!) something for gym class. In my defense, signing 5 children up at 3 different schools and all the involved paperwork, doctor’s visits, supply purchases, and uniform planning required nearly all of my not insignificant powers of planning and patience. I had them covered from head to… well… ankle. I’m getting there.
So my darling dearest headed dutifully for the mall with all but one of the kids in tow. After approximately 13 phone calls (does Grace REALLY need new shoes AGAIN? Didn’t we just buy her some, like, 2 years ago? And is it smart to buy Sam shoes that are a full size too big? They are the only ones he’s liked in 4 stores and, um, he’ll grow into them, right?), I assumed they had found shoes for everyone who needed them, but as the hour grew later and later, I began to worry. We HAD to do baths and showers tonight. None of this “but I swam in the lake so that’s just like a bath” summer nonsense on this very important night of nights. But where were they?
At 9:15, they burst through the door with a suspiciously large bag from a sporting goods store and 3 pairs of shoes (for 4 kids). After much discussion, we had all decided that only the oldest 2 really needed new ones. The rest of them could manage a few more months—at least until the snow threatened to seep into the holes in their old ones. The large bag contained new tow ropes for the boat, and the kids whispered of a new knee board as they finished their prayers later that night.
So everyone was in bed by 10, blessed and bathed, soothed and kissed. The two little girls jabbered excitedly for at least another half hour, but who’s counting? They got up easily enough this morning—first day excitement and all that. And we had some food in the house (we could all live on peanut butter in any event), and I even found an acceptable fruit/veggie/non-nut based snack for each of the little girls. Clay’s first day “tell me about YOU” bag was packed and everyone met the dress code.
The bus came a full four minutes early for my big kids (which—WHAT? That is so below the belt!) So our first day of school pictures on Sam’s momentous first day of middle school is taken through the drippy windows of the school bus. Luckily there was no one else on the bus at that point, or I may never have been forgiven. As if the sight of me sprinting barefoot down the street with soaking wet hair clutching my phone and shrieking “We didn’t get a picture!” wasn’t enough to strike humiliated fear into the hearts of the most confident middle schoolers. I thought about actually getting ON the bus, but just managed to contain myself.
Sam was ready, nervous, but willing to charge ahead. It broke my heart a little bit to hear him ask Grace 15 times what supplies he needed to take to his first class, and where he should go when he arrived. She was brusque and irritated—very big sisterly, come to think of it—and I silently (and, ok, a couple of times not so silently) begged her to show a little compassion. Sam was brave, and willing to jump in, but a little kindness from the sister he quietly admires quite a lot wouldn’t have hurt either. So he ran for the bus and didn’t look back, and I was left remembering the tiny baby boy who used to take such comfort in my presence and my touch that I called him my butter boy—for how completely his little body melted against mine in relief and connection anytime he was frightened or upset. Today he wouldn’t let me get too close, and I didn’t let the tears in my eyes fall as I watched his bus disappear around the corner.
I drove the littles to school, so I had a bit more control over the departure. We got lovely photos of my confident, smiling little 1st and 3rd graders. Lucy will own 1st grade—just like she’s owned every minute of her school career thus far. And Claire will dance joyously (if a bit cluelessly) into every challenge 3rd grade can throw at her. But my reluctant school boy’s photo reflects exactly his attitude about school for about the last month. He’s been hesitant, uncertain, and, with his little blankie clutched to his shuddering little chest—desperately courageous. And the whole family (especially his 2 big sisters) have rallied around him—comforting, encouraging and (let’s just say it) coddling.
I walked blithely into the first night orientation session late last week, expecting my tough little man to burst confidently into preschool with all his super-hero machismo and charm. He was cautious and quiet during the interview (during which his sisters either answered or whispered hints and responses in his ear for every question). When it came time for me to leave, all hell broke loose. My super strong little man had to be pried out of my arms by 2 full grown adults and his pleading and sobbing followed me out the door and all the way down the hall. I spent the entire meeting (containing details that haven’t changed in the 10 years a little Lueken has been in attendance at this school) working out plans for home schooling and a specially designed preschooler Bjorn that would accommodate both a rather large 4 year old, and his aging mom’s bad back.
Needless to say, I was not looking forward to today. Because here’s the thing. The child has never done anything alone. He’s always been surrounded by a comforting pack of cousins and siblings—be it Lucy showing him the ropes and beating off any would be bullies, or Grace volunteering as his counselor and full time babysitter. (We spent many hours between orientation and the first day of school discussing why, exactly, Grace couldn’t just join him at preschool. And also why he couldn’t marry her, but that’s a different story).
Today was better—but only just a little. There were tears. And I had to do the whole walking away thing again. I’ve gotten good at this, over the years. I smile. I don’t linger. I promise ice cream and snuggles. I kiss and walk away. Again and again I leave my heart in those little classrooms, with the little chairs and the little tables and storybooks and crayons and dress up clothes. And again and again they are great—my little Luekens. They are smart and they are kind. They are all sorts of wonderful I couldn’t possibly instill in them. The best I can do is stay out of their way, and so I do. I go to work and I make decisions and solve problems and live my own life away from them. A piece of my mind, and most of my heart, stay with them on days like these. I guess that’s true on most days.
Tonight, over ice cream, Sam smiled while he told me one of his best friends from grade school rode the same bus he did and the best part about middle school was locker breaks. Clay told me his teacher told him about kissing hands and WE already KNEW about them! Claire groaned about having to sit by boys and said she had chicken nuggets for lunch. Lucy said her teacher was mean until snack time, but then she was nice. Grace refused to talk to me after I was late picking her up from volleyball practice.
And so we begin, again. They’re still mine, for a little longer. They’re still making their mark on the world. They’re currently finger painting across from me (wait—we don’t own any finger paints), and driving me crazy. There’s laundry to fold and bedtime (too late—again) to attend to. Another day of great first is in the books.
