I’d taken many of my children to their first day of first grade. But today was different
As evening approached, I felt myself getting increasingly nervous. The hours were passing, bedtime was approaching, and I knew I would barely sleep that night.
Tomorrow was the first day of school and we were going into first grade. The new backpack was ready. The pencil case was waiting with markers, crayons, scissors, and pencils sharpened perfectly, each item labeled with a neat little nametag so that they wouldn’t get misplaced in the jumble of first grade.
This was a big jump and I knew it. No more games and toys, no more comfortable little couch at the side of the room to rest on when tired. First grade meant desks and books and teachers and a blackboard. Where, when someone wanted to talk, he needed to raise his hand, and where the bathroom was located at the end of a long hall of classrooms filled with big boys who went there by themselves. And where the smiling gannenet wasn’t there to hold the boys’ hands when they were scared.
Tomorrow, my seven-year-old Shlomo was going to start first grade. This was not my first “first day”; I’d taken many of my children to their first day of first grade. But today was different.
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