The first day of school

Although it had been raining all morning, when we loaded ourselves into the car for the new commute to the boys’ new school in Manotick the sun was thinking of peeking through the clouds. The boys were boisterous — even more so than usual — and their excitement about the new school swelled up and carried us all down the road on a sea of enthusiasm.

We parked near the school and chose a spot to meet up after school. We walked the long way around the building, pointing out climbers and hopscotches and picnic benches along the way. The boys chose a spot to meet during morning recess as well.

We moved from one taped-up sheet to another, searching for the Grades 1 and 3 class lists. We found Tristan’s class and a cluster of eight year old boys standing nearby. “Are you in Mrs Lee’s class?” I asked them. They regarded me with a universal indifference but indicated a vague affirmative. “This is Tristan, it’s his first day!” I said with bright and perhaps over-the-top enthusiasm. They took a quick look at Tristan and returned to their conversation. I forced a bright smile at Tristan, who looked very much like a turtle trying to pull back into his shell. “Do you want to wait here, or come with us to find Simon’s class?” I asked, and felt heartened when he chose to stay near his class list.

Simon bounced along beside me as until we found his name on a similar list. I approached a teacherly-looking woman with a clipboard in her hand. “Are you Ms Edwards?” I asked tentatively, and breathed deeply at her welcoming smile. I introduced Simon and she swept him up in a sea of happy chatter, welcoming him to the school and exclaiming that he was the very first check mark on her very first attendance sheet of the year. Simon ate it up with a spoon and I knew he would have no trouble with the many transitions he was facing, both into a new school and into a new full day of classes. Simon, my gregarious little flirt, would be fine.

I walked back over to where I’d left Tristan, and watched relief wash over his face when he craned his neck over the heads of the kids around him (not much of a stretch, since he stands about a head taller than most of them) and met my eyes. I moved to stand beside him, and ended up in a convoluted conversation with a rubber-boot wearing, curly-haired boy who regaled us with tales of his summer vacation while Tristan looked at his own shoes. Eventually I found Tristan’s teacher and introduced him to her. She tried to engage Tristan in conversation about his first day, but Tristan’s shyness made him nearly mute. Instead, she and I chatted companionably about the school (she’s been teaching there for more than a decade) and the neighbourhood while Tristan listened without seeming like he was listening.

I wanted to tell her that he’s just shy, not rude, and that he’s such a fantastic kid. I wanted to tell her that he’s an artist, and smart, and loves school, but that he needs praise and positive feedback to warm up. I wanted to tell her that he’s bursting with affection, and has loved each of his teachers to the point of tears at the end of the school year, but that he’s overwhelmed and tongue-tied and she’ll have to work to draw him out but that she will reap huge rewards when she does.

But I don’t say any of that. I just stand with my heart in my throat and one hand on Tristan’s shoulder, feeling like I did on his first day of junior kindergarten, wishing I could infuse him with just a touch of the easy gregariousness that smooths his brother’s social interactions.

I remember all to well facing the first day in a new school, the seemingly impenetrable barrier of previously forged social bonds. It was tough, but I never imagined I’d be feeling it so sharply all these years later, by proxy.

Eventually, the teachers led straggling queues of backpack-laden kids into the school. Tristan tried to step near the front where he’d been standing, found his way blocked by chattering kids, and instead worked his way to the back of the line. He shot me a grateful and painfully grown-up smile as I beamed 10,000 volts of my very best “I’m so proud of you” grin at him, and turned to follow his new classmates. I turned in time to see Simon leading his class behind his teacher, already so engaged in conversation with the mother of the brown-eyed girl behind him that he almost missed my vigourous kiss-blowing as he walked past.

This mothering thing will either break my heart or cause it to burst from pride one of these days. Or maybe, both.

Author: DaniGirl

Canadian. storyteller, photographer, mom to 3. Professional dilettante. View all posts by DaniGirl