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.