Last night I laid out the clothes packed a lunch and made sure the shoes all had mates. When the alarm buzzed at 6:40 am it wasn?t hard, for once, to put feet to the floor.?Three of us trailed behind the 9 year old with the wild hair who wanted to show us the way.?That?s the Safety Patrol, he said to his brother. They?re 5th graders.
There was a certain respect in the tone of his voice.
We walked through the double glass doors and made our way down a hallway peopled thick. My daughter clung to her plastic bowl of apples.
After we found the 4th grade classroom and said an anticlimactic goodbye, we turned the corner to head home. My son?s kindergarten teacher, Mrs. T., stood at the end of the hallway by the exit.
Thirty years ago I said goodbye to my Grandad at the threshold of Mrs. T?s classroom. She was just out of college and so much fun. We danced (to records!) and had a little grocery store. Once I peed my pants and Grandad brought me fresh clothes that I put on in the bathroom.
We stopped, said hello. I wondered if she remembered when I peed my pants.
I wished her a happy first day.
Raising kids in your hometown forces you to confront your own childhood every day. That must be why I think about it? and write about it? as much as I do.
It?s comforting. Familiar. But suffocating in a way. There?s a tension between the two feelings that?s hard to shake.
I know, for instance, where the sidewalk cracks when we?re riding bikes. I know the best spots for crossing the creek. But I also know how it feels to have a family that?s different in this small town.
I have to remember that these are their experiences now, their lives, and I?m only a supporting character this time around.
Of all the tasks of parenthood that is one of the most difficult for me: drawing the line between my story and theirs. Giving them space to figure it out.
Laying out the clothes and packing the lunches for all the first days I?ve already lived.
Source: http://my3littlebirdsblog.com/2012/08/drawing-the-line.html
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