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Reflections September 2015

The Raven Lunatic

No School Bell Ringing in Empty Nest

By Amy Abbott

“When you are five,” my parents said, “you get to go to school.” On my fifth birthday, six weeks before the official first day, I was utterly indignant because I was misled. All dressed in my red gingham “first day of school dress” from Montgomery Wards, I threw an absolute fit.

For the first time in years, I’m not buying school supplies. We have long forgotten the new pack of Crayola 64, the big yellow box with a sharpener. No color-coordinated one-inch notebooks, no extra-long twin bed sheets, no green and gold gym shorts.

I returned something to a store recently and saw a young woman and her mother in the checkout line. Both wore red and white Ball State University shirts. The daughter clutched a computer-generated list, and mom pushed a cart full of the usual paraphernalia for college rookies.

The ringing of the school bell makes me reflect.

My parents, both teachers, hyped going to school for weeks before I started kindergarten in 1962. “When you are five,” my parents said, “you get to go to school.”

On my fifth birthday, six weeks before the official first day, I was utterly indignant because I was misled. All dressed in my red gingham “first day of school dress” from Montgomery Wards, I threw an absolute fit. I had been had. My father walked me the three blocks to the elementary school. Pointing to the empty parking lot, row of unfilled bike racks and playground equipment, he said, “You can see there are no little boys and girls here.”

I felt duped, having to wait more than a month for this glorious, awe-inspiring event.

I held the same enthusiasm every year, enthused about new friends, clothing, activities, and everything except the actual work. Don’t we all know our attitude is at least part of the battle? My parents took the requisite first day of school photos; we did the same with our son.  What fun to look at pictures in progression throughout the years.

The parade of images shows increasing contempt in my son’s expression for the annual photos. By the time he was a senior one could almost hear, “Mom, why do I have to do this again?” as he raced out the door for school.

When our son started kindergarten, it was all I could do not to chase the bus around the corner. How could my little boy navigate the hallways of a large elementary school? Half his day was spent with typically developing students, while the other half was spent in developmental kindergarten.

What would happen to him at lunch? Could he take his own tray? I wanted to stalk him at school during the day.

Things became easier for both of us. By second grade, our son was in a classroom with typically developing students. By high school, he was a pro and drove himself to school the last two years.

When we dropped our son off at college in the wicked city, I’m not sure who was more worried.  When it was time to part, our son walked us halfway to the parking garage and posed for a picture next to the front gate of his university. I lingered and hugged him again, and finally my husband said, “We really need to go.” He didn’t want to leave him either. He was strong, with a stiff upper lip.

We drove out of the city and west to Indiana, not speaking a word for hours until we arrived at the hotel. A few tears were shed that day.

Each new school year brings its own hassles, turmoil, and change. Like everything else in life, it is temporary. Our son is no longer the tot in plaid shorts and a polo shirt, standing with a cheesy grin by our front door. Neither are we the same. We are a little older now, and wiser, freewheeling empty nesters.

The house is quiet. We are learning to love the solitude. We miss our son every day, yet he is happy with a full life of his own.

I remember an old episode of The Andy Griffith Show where Opie raised abandoned baby birds and released them. Opie tells his dad he misses the birds. Andy notices the happy sounds of birds chirping and tells Opie, “My how the trees are full.”

May you appreciate your baby birds, and then know the fullness of the trees.

 

Amy McVay Abbott is an Indiana writer and the author of three books. Visit her website at www.amyabbottwrites.com to learn more.

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