First Day

Tears gather and burn behind my eyelids as I watch my daughter, so young and yet so grown up, walk out onto the strange playground. She has no friends here, yet, in this foreign environment. She looks timid and uncertain of herself and slowly steps, inch by inch, onto the blazing black top of her new school's playground. My baby is venturing out and she is all alone.

Since she started preschool, she has been in the private sector of education. It has been a cocoon of sorts which has been busted open for several reasons - all of which are none of her doing. Although she would never say it, because she trusts me, I imagine she would rather have stayed in her routine at her old school where things were familiar, faces were familiar, where she was queen of the hive. Financially, though, it was too much for her father and so I found the most loving alternative and enrolled her in the Open Classroom.

This forward-thinking school has been around for over 30 years and is still a free, public school. Its only requirement: parents must agree to be in the classroom for three hours every week. That requirement alone is enough to keep the class sizes small and manageable. It also creates a much more intimate and fluid experience. The parents participate. Frequently. Who woulda thought it! They come from all over the valley and beyond - some driving over an hour to get their children to the school. They come because they believe in the theory: with parent involvement, the school is better, the child does better and everyone is happier.

I found myself amongst a group of very friendly parents today. Many dreadlocks and tie-dye shirts to be seen. Free thinkers all around me. It was astounding. I felt like I had gone to an entirely different state. So many artisans and brilliantly creative people surrounding me! I felt like I had found another tribe to which I now fit in and belong.

Because the classrooms are open, parents are able to come and go as they please. They are welcome in the classroom at all times. I stayed the morning and learned about classroom policies. I got to experience the children up close and personal. I got to hear about their summers and was introduced to their personalities. I could clearly decipher who was the queen bee of the sixth grade and I sensed my daughter sizing her up, knowing that that position would have been hers at her old school.

I ached as I watched from afar as she meandered across the playground. I remembered her first day at the old school. A friend found her immediately but she was young then, only six. It happens easier then. Today, at almost eleven years old, she was left alone, the other old bees buzzing about their hive in familiar fashion. The sadness was familiar for me... that feeling of so not belonging and being so alone. I remembered my seemingly endless experiences with that very situation... eight different schools before junior high.

I watched her and swallowed hard, holding tightly to the door so that I didn't rush out and rescue her. I watched as the room mother found her and a few of the other new bees and slowly walked them toward the queen. I watched as my daughter made timid friends with one of the other new girls. I watched as they climbed up on the wall to sit in the shade, chatting quietly and smiling shyly.

It is time for her wings to stretch, certainly. That's what children do when they hit middle school. They begin to stretch and broaden their horizons. They begin to explore new concepts, new ideas, new fads. They become aware of opposite gender in new ways and the ever-present cliques become more evident.

I get that. And my eyes still fill with tears. My baby is growing up and will soon know how to fly on her own without needing any guidance from me. Being a mother is a gut-wrenching, heart-rending experience, at times.