It seems impossible that I have cause to write the words back to school in reference to my own children. Up until a few years ago, back to school meant me going back to school. Back to grad school, back to teaching, back to ivy-clogged campuses clutching old copies of Rousseau’s Emile and stacks of lecture notes. But I no longer go to school, in any capacity other than the figurative – the school of life, people! the greatest school of all! – whereas the eldest of my children does.
And Emilia is not only going to school this year, she is going back to school. She is in first grade. She is a grade schooler. There is no more playschool, preschool, kindergarten, whatever. This is the full school deal, y’all, and it is weirding me out.
How did we get from here…
… to here?
I ask you. With panging and thrumming in my heart, I ask you. How did we get here?
(Related: when did she get knobby knees? When did she GROW? SHE IS SO VERY VERY BIG. HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?)