We’re back in school now, huzzah! Back to the good old daily grind.
Elementary school seems to be going well, kids and teachers in masks now. The excitement of the first day sure has worn off. Summer is gone, but someone forgot to tell the sun, which still burns with the fiery intensity of, well, the sun.
Oh, and it’s still light out late, but too bad, kids, you have to go to bed so you can get up at the crack of dawn. Thank you, blackout curtains.
For my elementary schoolers, waking up every morning at 6:30, being forced to do horrific things like getting dressed and brushing teeth is akin to torture. They flop about on the floor, moaning about how tired they are and complaining that there is absolutely nothing good to eat for breakfast.
They are asked to get ready, fill up their water bottles, and make sure they have a snack in their backpack. Instead, they sit listlessly at the breakfast table, staring into the middle distance, thinking about the terrible hand fate has dealt.
More often than the listless stare, though, is the death glare directed toward anyone who dares speak out of turn. They sneer at one another, at me, at their father. Even the dog.
I forgot my socks one says to me when a mere ten minutes ago I told her not to forget her socks. She wants me to go up and get them.
No, I won’t go get your socks. You go get them.
But you just told me I have to pack my snack. And, you told me to eat my breakfast. So, how am I supposed to do two things at once?
Oh my god, she sounds exactly like me. What have I done?
I scold myself for saying something similar once, something that she’s picked up on and has thrown right back in my face. I’m ruining her. I’m destroying them. They will be terrible people, and it will be all my fault.
I give up. I get the socks.
It’s not worth the argument.
We get out the door on time, or sometimes we don’t. We have backpacks, water bottles, and lunchboxes. We’ve taken our allergy medication, hopefully. We have our masks on chains around our necks. We wait for the school bus, and the girls dutifully put their masks on before they board.
They don’t complain about the masks. The masks are part of their lives now. They wear them, and they don’t complain because they know there is no point. Of course, there’s no point in complaining about waking up early either, but they still do that. The masks are irrelevant, though. They are a part of our day. Second nature.
What happens when the kids are at school, in their masks? They learn, I hope. They learn social skills, and how to jump rope, and how to multiply fractions. Can you imagine? Multiplying fractions? Hellacious. But they learn it.
They eat lunch next to their friends, masks off. They make up weird games on the playground, and they find out that the music teacher used to live in Africa! They debate whether an aardvark makes noise.
They have the luxury of learning, of existing as children, of days filled with absorbing the world with wonder and joy.
There are challenges, yes. They don’t drink enough water, sometimes, because of the masks. Or they can’t always understand what the teacher is saying, or the teacher can’t understand them. The days are long, seven hours away from home, away from mom, away from the dog. They are forced to learn to type, to answer questions, to engage. To think.
The school bus is hot, noisy, and crowded. They step off, sweaty and exhausted, their hair plastered down against their backs. I ask how their day was. I tell them they can take off their masks, because sometimes they forget. They’re used to them.
I ask again, how was your day?
One says, why do you always ask that?
I balk. I don’t know.
Because it’s… polite? Because I care? Because I’m interested your life?
I shut up. I help carry backpacks home. I try not to pry. I try not to get yelled at. I let them do whatever they want, to decompress. I cut apples into slices, and then I google “deodorant for tweens.”
We go to piano or soccer, and there is dinner and bedtime, and tomorrow we’ll do it again.
It’s drudgery, this back-to-school season. It’s always an adjustment period. But it’s okay, because it’s also normalcy. My kids complain about waking up early every year. They look at me with hate-filled eyes every time I suggest they try some yogurt for breakfast, pandemic or no. They drop their backpacks and shoes on the ground, raid the pantry, and ignore every single question I ask them about school.
No, I’m not enjoying every minute. Not even close.
But I am trying to be grateful. Trying to accept this slog, this daily grind.
Because at least I’m not the one teaching fractions.