To the Finish Line

My eight-year-old son, nicknamed “Mighty” from birth, is intuitive beyond his years and, with that, he tends to over think and, yes, to worry and worry. And, right now, he and I are in a tight race as to who is struggling more with the impending back-to-school transition. He is being combative. So is Mom. He is short on patience. So is Mom. He is having a difficult time choosing an activity that will sustain his interest. Ditto. I wish that I could claim to be acting more mature than he is, but even that is not a foregone conclusion.

Anyway, after an exhausting day where not even Dairy Queen chocolate dipped cones eased anyone’s tension, well, he and I finally found some moments of closeness at bedtime. This is the easiest time in our household to have quiet conversations about life.

You see, Mighty received his third grade class roster today and that brought with it new butterflies for the young guy. He’s worried because he’s got Mr. Heyman, who is brand-new to the school. The Unknown. And he is worried because, I swear to you, the boy has tallied up the number of “wild” kids in his class. There are eight, according to my young son, a figure that does not, in his estimation, bode well for Mr. Newbie. Or for him. Mighty cannot understand why class size increased from last year or why they would not have spread the “wealth” of wildness around a bit more. He cannot understand why third graders have to take MAP tests or how he will navigate his way through recess, where, once again, the boys will cheat at soccer. Back in the classroom, he wonders whether he will be able to focus at his table if other kids are talking, flinging boogers or doing whatever else “wild” third graders do. Mighty, who prides himself on impeccable behavior at school, worries that he might get caught up in the brushfire and somehow land in the principal’s office. Oh, and he worries that he will be burdened by piles of homework. It IS third grade, after all, he utters, all knowingly.

Amazing.

He is my son.

And I share his burden.

I, too, worry about too many bodies stuffed into my classroom. And about whether I will engage each of my eighth graders enough to make them not want to have farting contests or text message each other under their desks. I worry about whether the environment will feel unsafe due to bullying that I do not see and about whether I will be complicit in allowing a certain few to distract and impede the learning of others. I worry, even after all these years, about knowing how much homework, if any, is the right amount. Oh, yeah, and I guess I worry a little bit about MAP tests too.

And when my eighth graders pile in next week, looking all “too cool for school” in their sassy outfits, tonight will remind me that they are, in so many ways, still little kids dressed in big-kid costumes. They may be flirting in the hallways and gossiping in the bathrooms, but some, or maybe even many, are just masking anxiety about the upcoming school year. What is down this path known as eighth grade? Who are these strangers who will be my teachers? Will they notice when I am sad? Will they give me challenging work so that I am not sitting here, bored? Will that annoying boy be allowed to whistle during class like he was last year? Will my teacher require me to peer edit even though I cannot stand to share my writing? Will she make me read aloud in class?

They are my awesome responsibility, each one of them.

And as Kylene Beers writes in her book, When Kids Can’t Read: What Teachers Can Do for those students who are coming to us after failure upon failure, “Their willingness to try, even halfheartedly, one more time is a fragile gift they hand to us.”

Oh, yes.

****

It is past midnight and I am still awake, revising this post, wondering what Mr. Heyman might be worrying about right now, and wondering whether Mighty is right, that the poor guy is about to step into the biggest dance party of his lifetime. Let’s hope not, for his sake, for Mighty’s sake.

Meanwhile, my boy is finally peaceful in his bed, dreaming, I imagine, about his beloved Cardinals maybe shutting out the Cubbies in Game #2 of this weekend’s series.

I hope, more than anything, that Mr. Heyman will cherish this little guy, this gift, that I will soon be sending to him.