Charlotte Potts taught me first grade.  

We started every day by writing in our notebooks.  It looked like this:

Today is Tuesday, September 7, 1981.  It is sunny.  Today, we have Gym.

After carefully writing the day's details with our number 2 pencils, we had to write a sentence all of our own design.  They looked like this:

This weekend, we are going to the zoo.

Or:

My mom bought me a new dress.  It is pink. 

But usually, it was some narrow variation of this:

I love Mrs. Potts.

I loved Mrs. Potts with my whole six year old heart.  When the advanced reading group met at the table at the front of the room (on the left, up by the floor-to-ceiling chalkboard, you know?) for Open Court, Mrs. Potts invariably ate a bag of Fritos.  

To this day, I LOATHE Fritos.  I am pretty sure it was her only "flaw."

Also?  By first grade, I was pretty sure I had my shit together.

*     *     *     *     *

Jack completed kindergarten last week.  

He had a marvelous year.  He grew -- vertically, emotionally, academically, and socially.  He learned -- Pokemon, math, reading, and tall tale telling.  He bonded -- with his wonderful teacher, his best new friends, and even some friends who proved challenging to him.

And now, with the intrepidity of youth, he's ready for the next challenge.

*     *     *     *     *

I was pretty emotional the night before Jack's last day of kindergarten.  I can't lie.  I mean -- it's totally relatable and it's also platitude central, right?

The days are long but the years are short. 

Childhood is but the blink of an eye. 

There is no love like that of a mother's heart.

Or, as the Interwebz so poetically puts it:

Time is an asshole. 

The truth is that the years are short.  They fly by mercilessly as a blur of soccer practices, negotiating bedtimes, frantic dinner preparation, and weariness at the end of the day.  

But, dammit, they are also a handful of exquisite, crystallized moments -- our butterflies on the first day of school, the awesome field trip, the wonderful Ms. Voyce, the crazy fun Valentine's Day party, and so many laughs and memories and joyful bits.

And so once again, by first grade, I'm pretty sure I have my shit together.

I know Jack does.

Hope your day is full of sweet memories and free of corn chips.

Talk soon,

Heather

worth at least a thousand words

Without further ado, Jack's kindergarten photo:

Of course, I think it's the cutest thing I've ever seen.

I also think about how, when he left the house, his hair was neatly combed and the plaid shirt was buttoned.  

But that's life, isn't it?  He's almost six.  When he goes out into the world, to *his* world of kindergarten, his hair gets rumpled and he unbuttons his shirt because he's living his life.  He's playing, learning, moving, and growing.  

And so, this picture is perfect, rumples, wrinkles, and all.  Because THIS is Jack.  

Hope your school pictures are the best ever, too.

Talk soon,
Heather

eleven hundred and six

Jack and I spent some quality afternoon time together earlier this week.  We got him a much-needed (and very hip) haircut and then stopped by Soup Peddler to see what we might find delicious for dinner.

We ended up eating a super early dinner there, because Jack was adamant about having a grilled cheese sandwich IMMEDIATELY.  I respect the urgency with which we sometimes need a grilled cheese, you know? (I also wasn't going to argue because they had mulligatawny that day.  SCORE!)

He was a little pensive.  Apparently, when you are almost six, you get pensive.  A few weeks ago, it was about the devastating fact that he IS NOT YET SIX.  This was a cataclysm.  I had the unfortunate responsibility to explain that we cannot fix that.  We just have to tough it out, day by day, until the glorious sixth year begins.

We were also pensive about Nutella this morning.  Jack is allowed to have "chocolate toast," (aka, wheat toast with Nutella) one morning a week.  He had it on Monday.  He knew it.  Durel knew it.  I knew it.  

He demanded chocolate toast.  He whined.  He pointed to the pantry emphatically.  He went to the pantry and handed me the Nutella.  (I put it back, but on the top shelf, with the booze.  Touche.)  

Sometimes, you have to stay strong.  We stayed strong.  We hoped that the five bites of Cheerios he grudgingly ate would hold him over until morning snack time.

The struggle is real, you know?

Really though, the pensive moods are pretty quick and infrequent.  They are vastly overshadowed by the ten gazillion things that we are REALLY PSYCHED about.  These things include:  kindergarten, soccer, Sawyer, Star Wars, the new beanbag chairs that Durel bought, chocolate toast (it's really important, you guys), learning to read, and math. 

For instance, this happened:  

Jack:  Mom.  What's 900 + 200?

Me:    Eleven hundred.

Jack:  Nooooo!  That's not a real number!  Ha ha ha!

Me:   Right, OK.  900 + 200 equals one thousand, one hundred.  But sometimes, you can also call that number eleven hundred.  It's like a nickname for one thousand one hundred.

Jack:   [eyes wide; mind blown]  Oh...

Three days later, every picture Jack drew at home was of eleven hundred.  The pictures are folded up like secret notes from middle school, taped with washi tape, and solemnly handed to their intended recipients.

Eleven hundred, you guys. 

Hope the clouds pass quickly and the realizations are momentous.

Talk soon,

Heather

the one where chickens are mentioned a lot

Back in the day, I was a big 10,000 Maniacs fan.  Laura Werther and I went to see them at the University of Delaware when we were in high school.  Natalie Merchant *spoke to me* you guys.

I am incapable of mentioning the University of Delaware without giving a proper shout out to their mascot, the Fightin' Blue Hen, known locally as the Ass Kickin' Chicken.

These are days you'll remember.

*     *     *     *     * 

In some sort of frantic emotional preparation for Jack starting kindergarten in LIKE TWO WEEKS, he and I have had a few "Mommy and Jack Days."  

We had one on Friday.  It was pretty rad.

We took coffee and breakfast to Grammy and Pop.  Jack waited patiently while we discussed the previous evening's Republican primary debate.  (Ah, so much to talk about.)  He then regaled us with stories of the solar system, which were accurate, detailed, and articulate -- and promptly blew my parents' minds.

We went to the movies and reclined our posh seats and had yummy lunch.  We saw "Shaun the Sheep," which was funny and adorable.  Jack like the burping part the best.

Then, you guys.  We went back to school shopping.  In the grand Davies tradition, we went to the Gap.  OH, how I have memories of our annual pilgrimage to the retail bastion that is Christiana Mall.  (It is also in Delaware, home of tax-free shopping and aforementioned ass kickin' chickens.)  

I had a totally trippy parent moment as I indoctrinated Jack into his preppy legacy.  

 

Clearly, indoctrination suits him.

We rounded out the day with a treat.  I attempted to pitch to Jack his first hot fudge sundae, thinking that this would be a fitting milestone in a day of big moments.  He eyed me skeptically.

Jack:     What's a hot fudge sundae?

Me:       It's a big dish of ice cream, with hot chocolate sauce on top, and whipped cream, and nuts, and a cherry!

Jack:     I just want ice cream.

Me:       Well, do you want chocolate sauce on it?

Jack:     Yes!

Me:       Do you want a cherry on it?

Jack:     Yes!

Me:       So...you sort of do want a hot fudge sundae?

Jack:     No!

Me:       So...you don't want the whipped cream and the nuts?

Jack:     No way.

Me:       Right.  

Hope your day is free of nuts and has the appropriate amount of chickens.

Talk soon,

Heather