Callapidder Days

Somehow, my firstborn son is in sixth grade. It doesn’t make any sense, really, because I’m pretty sure it was just a few weeks ago that he was trotting off to Kindergarten.

Six years? It’s been that long?

He’s traded in his crayons for pens (erasable, for school), his backpack for the now-popular messenger bag, coloring pages for loose-leaf paper and countless notebooks. He has a locker, changes rooms for different classes (remember the excitement of changing rooms?), and owns a scientific calculator.

We’ve noticed that he spends more time adjusting the direction of his hair in the morning, and that he’s carrying breath mints to school with him. (Uh-oh. Is this cause for concern?)

Sixth grade officially started last Wednesday.

I rush outside with him to take the annual quick-before-the-bus-comes photo. Coaxing a smile is getting more difficult. He’s ready to go; who has time to pose for mom?

That afternoon, when asked about his first impressions of sixth grade, he diplomatically tells me, “Well…it’s not as bad and I thought it would be. But it’s not as good as I hoped it would be.” Which I think is code for, “Meh…it’s school.”

Though he keeps getting older, there are things that remain the same. He’s creative. He loves books. He’s loyal and stubborn and full of opinions. He analyzes everything and memorizes like a champ.

Those things were true six years ago and they’re true today.

Oh, and another thing. We love him with everything we’ve got. That’ll never change.

Every year, toward the end of August, I’m struck with this same feeling.

Or rather, struck with these same feelings.

On the one hand, I am quite ready for school to begin. I’m not exactly the parent leaping through Staples singing “It’s the most wonderful time of the year…” (though I do love those office supplies), but I’m ready for the fall routine to kick in. Even though we probably won’t be any less busy, our schedule will at least be more predictable, more consistent.

I’m a big fan of consistency.

Besides, I find fall (or at least early fall) to be delightful. I love the cooler air, the changing leaves, the idea of drinking hot coffee on a cool morning.

On the other hand, I am wondering if I squandered the summer — at least to some extent. I second-guess my choices, the way I filled our days. I fret about missed opportunities to teach my kids important life lessons, lessons more easily taught when the distraction of school and homework aren’t around. I wonder if I was too grumpy too often, and I hope my kids could tell how very much I love them.  I worry that, with the start of school, my ability to influence them wanes.  I regret the shushing, the impatience, the times I messed up. I wish I’d been a better steward of the summer months.

My husband would tell you that I worry too much. And he would tell me that things are fine — the kids are happy and healthy and they know I love them. They had fun this summer, they learned, they tried new things.

But still. Sometimes I’m just overwhelmed by the whole “we only have one shot at this parenting thing” concept. And I wish I would do a better job.

Today, I’m thankful for my kids. And I’m thankful that every new season — even the busy school seasons that fill up with homework and projects and all kinds of activities — present new opportunities to teach them and to love them and to learn with them.