He wanted to be home schooled. 10 years ago we stood outside the kindergarten classroom.  He clung to me tightly, his sweaty little hand firmly placed in mine.  We waited with all the other newbies while Mrs. Richards greeted each one by name as she pinned their name tags on their brand new outfits for their first day of school.  I pulled out my camera and snapped his picture as he stood in line to meet her, a look of fear and trepidation on his face.  It was a tradition that would be repeated on the first day of each new year.

I tried to be brave.  I bit my lower lip as I hugged him goodbye and pasted on the biggest smile I could muster lest my face betray my heart.  And then, when he was safely inside the door, I cried.

Today my youngest started high school.

The alarm went off sometime around 6:00 a.m. although it was hardly necessary.  I had been awake for hours, unable to sleep.  The principal was already up and on his way out the door to take the oldest to school to meet the other varsity football players for an early morning weight lifting session.  So much for easing in slowly.

We crammed all of his books into his backpack, stuck the brown paper sack that held his turkey and cheese sandwich on top and then loaded up his football gear into a San Francisco Giants gym bag.

“I can’t bring my stuff in that!” he shrieked.  “It’s a baseball bag.”

“No one will see it.  It’s going to be in your locker.”  Mom, you so don’t have a clue.

After downing a quick bowl of chocolate krispies doused in milk, we hopped in the car and began our long trek to parts unknown.  It was quiet.  I turned on the radio to break the tension.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his schedule and quietly began to review his itinerary for the day, his mental GPS working overtime to make sure there was not one single misstep.  He folded it up again and placed it back where he had found it, confident that he had a plan.

And then he did the whole thing again, just to make sure.

He glanced down at his shirt and noticed a small stain left by a rogue cup of hot chocolate, just at the hemline.  The washing machine had failed him.  “Just great,” he moaned.

“It will be fine,” I said, more for me than for him.

More silence.

We listened to Duane Kuiper recap the Giant’s victory over the Atlanta Braves the night before.  Trying to ease the tension, I commented that Barry Zito, our illustrious 126 million dollar pitcher, had picked up his 7th win.

“Mom, it’s the Braves,” he said sarcastically.

I thought I noticed a smile.  Progress.

He pulled the schedule from his pocket one more time, unfolded it and gave it one last look.  At least for the next few minutes.

We arrived at school 10 minutes early. There would be time to deposit the books in his locker and hide that awful Giant’s bag deep where no one could see it. Grabbing his things, he opened the door and stepped out to begin the next four years of his young life.

“Good luck,” I said cheerfully, trying to be brave.  And as I drove away, I realized I had forgotten, for the first time, to take his picture.