The alarm went off as planned, everyone up and going, breakfast eaten, lunches made, suitable clothing attired, four shoes located and on the feet, out the door at a reasonable time, taxi available, on time arrival for a very early day, and we're off, welcome to third grade.
Mary, who was a bit nervous for the start of such a monumental year, hit the playground and ran, leaving me, and my camera, on the sidewalk. Kate was not far behind. For now the fourth year, I cried on the first day of school. The same wonderful teacher, the one who comforted me on the first day of kindergarten, who promised me that they would take very good care of them, hugged me today, knowing that my unstable self needed that extra reassurance that yes, everything would be all right. Of course now they have tackled the big things. They both know where the bathroom is, and how to buy milk at lunch. They know where to hang their backpack and how to find their seat in their new classroom. But the return to school means a return to a calendar and structure. A return to a rigid schedule that leaves little to no time for play and silliness during the week. Stopping for ice cream on the walk home from the dinner is now a weekend only event, and afternoons are spent doing homework, rather than chasing Eleanor Roosevelt through the park.
My days are all my own, to do with as I please.
The problem is, I don't really like order, and I've never been very good with a schedule.
I do miss the clutter of summer.
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