Middle School

The first day of school. Khakis and school t-shirts. Coco’s hair in a chignon, courtesy of her sister. Nerd glasses. Converse sneakers.Pride sucks out all my brain cells on days like this. No words describe the love I feel. No superlative is enough. Thank God for photographs. They capture the moment in spite of the fact that my heart is floating above my head, and I have to yank it back down to keep from embarrassing myself. 

“Mom, let’s go. Enough with the camera already.”

So, I get in the car, drive the few blocks, and watch my daughters walk in to the building. There’s a peace about it that I haven’t felt other years. I can’t say why. I’m back to the regular school day routine. I make the bed, put dinner in the crock pot, clothes in the washer. An hour later, I’m walking the dog when I get a text from Cherry.

“I have theatre arts instead of health. Don’t text back!”

Don’t text back means she’s texting surreptitiously. It’s illegal of course. And it’s also tied to taking health over theatre arts. I convinced her to take health for high school credit by adding unlimited texting to our mobile phone plan. Cherry’s won the round by default.

The dog pulls on the lead, and I capitulate.

. . . I don’t hate the idea of theatre class. It was my life before writing.

. . . Texting is this generation’s rite of passage.

. . . You’ve got to break a few rules to find out which ones are worth following.