Sam's First Day of First Grade

**Aside from our family, names have been changed**

“We have to wear masks??!” He was shocked.

I honestly don’t know how he missed that memo. The WHO declared a global pandemic more than six months ago, the CDC soon after. We’ve been wearing masks in public for at least four months. 

So, yes, Sam. When you go to school for the first time in six months, with the test positivity rate still well above 5%, you have to wear a mask.

And their school has taken the precautions very seriously. Which I commend. Some of it is probably security-theater, but it’s hard to teach and learn if you’re anxious or scared. So, we’ll gladly do temp checks at the door, wear masks, keep our kids six feet apart, and much more, all so they can go to school, be social again, and build relationships with their new teachers in person. 

The boys were already in their school uniforms when I came down that morning. They were excited, chatting incessantly at 7:40AM, securing their belts, and tucking in their shirts. Which was overkill because part of the reopening plan at their school is half-days. One half of the student body attends school in the morning and the other half goes in the afternoon, so that we don’t cram too many kids into a classroom at once. When they’re not in school, they’re responsible for online assignments and video lessons at home. 

We were dealt the afternoon session, which meant that Nate and Sam would have all morning at home, then eat lunch, and thenI would drop them off at school.

“Hmm,” I said, suddenly a bit judgy. I was trying to contain my inner buzzkill. Just be proud that they’re eager and happy and proactive. 

“It’s just that…” I couldn’t hold it in, “why did you have to choose the whiteshirts?” 

Their school mandates white or hunter green polo shirts with the school logo on the chest. I always buy the green ones to minimize stains, but I can’t control what arrives in hand-me-down bags. 

They shrugged and continued giggling about Legos and Fortnite and boogers and butt cracks and whatever else they think is funny first thing in the morning. 

“Sam!” I yelled a bit later as I was plating his waffles. “Don’t get juice on your shirt! Don’t get syrup on your shirt! Don’t get anythingon your shirt!”

“Okay,” he said flatly. “Should I just get it all on my pants then?”

I rolled my eyes.

Later, after the boys had eaten an early lunch and we were climbing into the car to take them to school for the big first [half] day, Sam, with black paw prints stamped on the back of his white shirt after wrestling with the dog, got uncharacteristically serious, like he was suddenly focusing on his tasks for the afternoon.

“Mom, I know where the steps are, but I don’t remember how to get to my classroom from there.”

“It’s straight ahead, at the bottom of the steps. The closest classroom to the stairwell.”

I continued, speaking slowly to optimize his comprehension. “If you get lost, ask someone. Tell them you’re in first grade. Hold up one finger so they understand you through your mask. And tell them your teacher’s name.”

I paused a moment.

“Sam, what’s your teacher’s name?”

“Mrs. Booger Butt.”

I rolled my eyes. 

Two years ago, in Sam’s pre-k year, he still didn’t know either of his two classroom teachers’ names by November. This became apparent to us one night at dinner when he told a story about his school day and I asked which teacher he was referring to.

“I don’t know. One of them.”

“Sam, what are your teachers’ names?” I asked, testing him. Remember that this was November. The air was crisp and cold, leaves were off the trees, and we were preparing for Thanksgiving, not Labor Day. In November students and teachers are no longer getting to know one another—they’ve already settled into their roles and are comfortable with one another.

“Sam?”  

After a few moments of silent shrugs from Sam, Nate, who knows everything about everything, got impatient.

“Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Brooks!” he yelled, answering on Sam’s behalf.

“No, Nate!” Sam yelled, thinking Nate was referring to his own teachers. “She wants to know who MYteachers are!”

Cue the eye roll again. Not only did he not know their names off the top of his head, he didn’t even recognize them when Nate said them aloud. 

Who is this kid?

So although Sam’s not great with names, I had assumed he was kidding when he referred to his new teacher as Mrs. Booger Butt. Surely he must know his teacher’s name. Class lists have been out since early June.

Typically, their school hosts an open house just before school starts, allowing parents and students to find their new classroom and drop off the mountain of supplies that little hands never seem able to carry. And on a typical first day, parents, giddy with excitement and raging with morning caffeine, walk their children to their classrooms, snap pictures, and then linger too long in the lobby, socializing and finishing their coffees, emancipated from their children for another seven hours.

But this is not a typical year.

This is… *dun dun dun* 2020.

So Sam would have to rely on his own navigational experience and budding sense of direction to find the first grade classrooms. Plus a very helpful video that his teacher had sent earlier in the week with a tour and step-by-step instructions on how to enter the building and get to her classroom.

But Sam is like his dad and doesn’t worry about anything, so he barely glanced at the laptop screen as we watched his teacher glide through the hallways, pointing out landmarks and narrating her path. 

“Do you want to watch it again, Sam?” I had asked.

“Hey Nate!” he had called, scampering away. “Want to go to Jimmy’s house?”

Sometimes I wonder if he even knows I exist.

So when he tumbled out of the car that first morning, I smiled and waved to the familiar faces of teachers and parent volunteers and muttered to Tess and Lou, “There’s no way he’s finding that classroom on his own.”

At the end of the school day, about three and a half hours later, Sam beat Nate to the car.

“It was ah-mazing!”

“Really?!” I was so excited for him. He’s never that emphatic or authentic. He usually just shuffles along, with a casual, slightly cocky smirk on his face, giggling to himself, pushing people’s buttons, and trying to impress Nate with physical achievements and clever quips. 

In other words, he’s a smartass.  

“Tell me about it, Sam.” I wanted to hear all the details before Nate arrived and hijacked the conversation.

“I have to peeeeeeeeee!” 

And just as quickly as Sam ran to the car—which was really fast, especially for Sam—the quality of our mother-son conversation vanished.

“I have to pee! My penis is about to be flooded with urine!”

And in between panicked pleas about his need to pee, the tale of his morning drop-off emerged. 

First, he went in the wrong door, not the door designated for first-graders. He’s not sure which door he went in, but it wasn’t the right one, so the little bit he could recall from his teacher’s video was now useless.

But he did find a stairwell and correctly went to the bottom floor. And then he wandered “in circles” for a while until a helpful teacher found him.

Since he truly could not remember his teacher’s name, she led him from class to class asking each teacher if they have “a Sam” on their lists. 

Whatever works! As I write this, he’s at school for Day #2. I have no idea how or if he found his classroom today, but I’m not worried. He’s resilient. What’s more important is that he finds a bathroom.