Second...

N starts second grade tomorrow. When I was looking over her school supply list, I kept getting all mixed up. Then I realized it was because I was alternately looking at the kindergarten list and the first grade list. It took a lot of effort to actually get  my eyes to focus on the second grade list, because I still don't know how it is that she's going into second grade.

When I was in second grade, I had Sister Mary Laura. Everyone should get to have a teacher like Sister Mary Laura at least once. She was kind, and patient, and smiled a lot. When it was time to sit Indian style on the floor (yes, this was before political correctness. We could say things like "Indian style"), she would tell us that it was also okay not to sit Indian style, if our legs were too long. I'm not sure who would actually have legs that long in second grade, but it was my first lesson in how much people--and children in particular-- appreciate being given some illusion of control over their environment. She also recycled her paper lunch bags long before it was the trendy thing to do.

N won't have Sister Mary Laura. She will have Mrs. G. I have no idea if Mrs G recycles her paper lunch bags--my guess is that she probably has a re-usable lunch bag like everyone else. But I've heard she's kind and patient, and at least going by previous yearbook pictures, she seems to smile a lot.

I just hope N has good things to say about her thirty years from now.

Something changed for me after second grade. I don't know exactly what it was. Most likely it was a combination of factors. The difference being an eight year old and being a seven a year old.  The beginning of girl drama in its earliest forms. A teacher change in the middle of the year. My dad's retirement from the fire department. Maybe it was all of those things. Or maybe it was none of those things. But, somehow, third grade was decidedly different from second. While second grade--and first, before that--meant fun, and security, and comfort, third grade for me meant upheaval and uncertainty.

I couldn't tell you the name of either teacher we had that year, but I can tell you the one we had the next year, in fourth grade. But I won't. Because Sister Mary Laura also taught me that if I didn't have anything nice to say, I shouldn't say anything at all.

In any case, as wonderful as second grade was for me, it was also the end of...something. Oh, school was good again eventually, but in a very different way than it was in Sister Mary Laura's second grade class. So, of course, I'm wondering if N's experience will be anything like mine. And I'm hoping that somehow, her sense that school is a fun, secure, and comfortable place will continue long past second grade.

So far, I've been able to help make sure that school is a positive experience for her. I communicate with her teachers (no, I'm not that mom. I don't think), I help with her homework, and make her a healthy lunch, and buy her cute clothes. Call me shallow if you want. I wore a gray plaid uniform for six years, and then switched to a school where no one wore uniforms and I had no idea what to wear. Trust me, clothes matter. I also have ulterior motives. I figure that while people are looking at her cute clothes, no one will notice that  I've been rotating the same four t-shirts and two pairs of jeans for the past year and a half.

I talk to her about being nice to others and about sticking with the kids who are nice to her.  So far, I've been able to steer her toward the kids who I know are being raised to be kind, and compassionate, and hard working. I e-mail their moms. And call them. And occasionally, make them drink bloody marys with me. In fact, drinking bloody marys with the moms of your child's friends is a crucial aspect in ensuring their future social and academic success.

All too soon, of course, N will be making friends with kids whose moms I don't know. At least not well enough to drink bloody marys with. Within a year or so, I won't be able to help as much with her homework--at least not her math homework, which will be beyond my comprehension once she gets through long division. Her future teachers likely won't be  so welcoming when I send them the third e-mail in a week. They won't be as quick to change her seat because someone is talking too much next to her, and they won't be as eager to step in when someone is being mean.

They also won't be drawing smiley faces in her agenda book every day. That one makes me particularly sad.

So I tell myself that at least I am giving her the tools she needs to handle whatever comes her way.

A note in her lunch bag. A hug before she gets on the bus. Another when she gets home. Sharpened pencils to help her do her best, erasers for when she needs to start over, and a new binder to keep it all together until she gets home, at which point she can spill it all out on the kitchen counter.

Because that's what home is for. A place where you can let it all spill out.

And that, perhaps, is the greatest tool we can give her.