First Day in First Grade

The first day of school was marked by equal parts joy and emotional instability. And Grayson was just as bad.

I was prepared for his clothing crisis, after experiencing similar traumas on every major holiday in recent history, and successfully talked him off the ledge with lots of gentle but confident words and a final push out the door. (Although the complaint, that he was trying too hard to look cool, not normal, was a new and dramatic twist.)

The teenage angst continued on the walk to school. I was walked ahead, he followed behind at a safe distance. He refused to pose for pictures in front of the sign. He didn't want to be shown the bathroom location, or hear about whether his backpack contained milk money or a juice box. He was calm, cool and in-control. If he owned a Fedora, it would have been tipped at a jaunty angle with one eye looking out at the ladies.

Until we reached room 3.

Thin little arms cinched my waist like a belt. Size 12 Converse scaled my legs like a coconut tree. It was as if he was planning to exercise some of womb re-entry option. His very own desk was located, with his name already on both it and a math book. Friends were pointed out, the teacher introduced. The grip eventually relaxed, and the seal was broken. Officially, he became a first-grader.