One box of crayons. One jar of Elmer's washable school paste (kid-tasting and often eating approved) One pair of child's size scissors. One cigar box (literally a cigar box that smelled like cigars). One folding napping pad (because napping at school was a thing in 1970 and should probably still be a thing in 2023 in my opinion at least in High School for your Free Enterprise class that is right after lunch).
Mama held my hand as we walked through the aisles of the TG & Y dime store, checking off the paper list of supplies my Kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Thornton, had given all the parents of the soon-to-be newest students of Green Acres Elementary to purchase before the first day of school.
Next we walked over to the aisle where several bolts of fabric and notions were. We sat down at the table that held the large pattern catalogues. Steering me to look through the "Simplicity" catalogue she'd run her thumb along the sizing tabs and open it to the little girl's section. Turning page after page I finally pointed to a dress worn by a girl with long thick braids; as though if I wore that same dress my hair would also be transformed. Mama took her pencil and wrote the number of the pattern down, pulled the heavy drawer that held rows of patterns she found the match. We then walked over to the fabric. Walking slowly along the bolts, I ran my hand along the fabric until I landed on one that caught my eye. It was bold. It was loud. It was polyester.
It wasn't happening. "Sweetie, how about this green cotton fabric instead? It'll look so pretty with your green eyes and we can sew some daisy trim on the front! I've never sewn on polyester before and I don't want to ruin it." (Mama had thrown out failed sewing projects on more than one occasion). "Okay...but do you promise we can sew daisies on it?"
That was 1970. I raised my own babies all through the 80's, 90's and into the 2000's. From my oldest child starting her first day of kindergarten, her back-pack flopping on her shoulders as she ran from me to go catch up with her class-mates standing in line. I stood holding the hand of her little sister; her baby brother on my hip, smiling as big as I could in case she turned to look back at me, hoping that she couldn't also see my tears. I knew that day, my life as a mother of littles was changing forever. To my youngest child having his last first day of school. We had a quick goodbye, then he drove himself to school. He knows I over-think and over-emotionalize things. I think we both knew my life as a mother was changing forever.
At the end of every school year, my mother would say, "I can't wait for summer so I can play with my kids all day!" True or not, I believed her. I also relished in my carefree summers with my own seven little people.
I have sent my children to public schools, and charter schools. I've home-schooled and I've even pulled some of my children out of school entirely for various reasons. The "back-to-school season" signifies a sense of tradition and routine.
My days of signing disclosures, registration paper-work, kid's dentist and Dr appts, shopping for school supplies, clothes (and inevitably new shoes because for some reason children's feet grow by leaps and bounds under the summer sun) are over. So strange that while I was in the thick of it, it was so all-consuming, and often over-whelming. And then one day it just seemed to stop.
Today I took a few grandies out for an afternoon of food and fun. This year all four of these cute siblings will be attending school; and this is their last week of Summer break. As I sat across the table from them, I watched them nearly inhale their pizza. They were so well-behaved. "If this were twenty years ago with my own kids, it would be mayhem", I couldn't help thinking.
While a few of my children are now navigating parenting, I'm also navigating grand-parenting. It's a strange thing when the only thing I have memory of ever wanting to be or do is to be a mother. A mother of young people that needed me and gave me great purpose. And then they all had the audacity to grow up. The nerve.
I remember hearing my grandmother say more than once about my mother, "I can believe I'm a grandmother, but I just can't believe my daughter is a grand-mother too!" I really wouldn't choose to go back in time to all the home-work, science projects, last-minute book-reports, parent-teacher conferences and the list goes on and on. But the parts I would choose to go back to, I can continue to experience through these beautiful little souls called grand-children.
When I start to pine for my days of young mother-hood, I just need to remember that I can lie in bed at 10:30 PM and drift off to sleep with the knowledge that no one is going to darken my bedroom door and ask me if I can drive them to Walmart to get poster-board for a project that is due by second period tomorrow.
Life is pretty grand after all.
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