On my first day of school, my mother made pancakes in the shape of Mickey Mouse. For the eyes, she used chocolate chips and for the nose, a cherry.
I wore green cords, a Six-Million-Dollar Man T-Shirt, and Keds.
The wind messed up my hair on the walk to school so my mom licked her fingers and tried to make it all stay down. She couldn’t.
My teacher had a round face, glasses, and big brown hair. I sat on the front row next to a boy called Stephen. Later that year, I would toss Stephen’s left shoe onto the roof and my mother would have to pick me up early from school.
I looked around me: there were wooden desks, letters and numbers tacked to the wall, a drinking fountain, and shelves of books.
After a snack of graham crackers and milk, I had to use the bathroom. I was afraid to ask Mrs. Beezer so I crossed my legs, held my breath, and waited for school to end.
When I peed myself, my green cords became dark until the wet spot looked almost black.
I ran out of the classroom, down the hall, and all the way home.
*
Now I have kids of my own. Our favorite book is Maurice Sendak’s
Where the Wild Things Are. We love to perform the story as we read it and when we do the wild rumpus, Gareth and Eliot jump on my back and we dance across the room.
I love
Where the Wild Things Are because I remember my mother reading it to me. When I see Max chasing his dog, sailing across the sea, and taming the wild things, I think of her. Of course while I think about my mother I also think about Gareth and Eliot.
These moments are horrible and wonderful at the same time: horrible, because I have left childhood behind, but wonderful because I can enjoy their childhood and pretend I am getting younger instead of older.
*
Today I take Gareth to his first day of school. I see the tiny desks, the letters and numbers on the wall, and a copy of
Where the Wild Things Are in the bookshelf next to
Harold and the Purple Crayon. This is one of those moments.
There are the other parents around me. In them, I see traces of their children. One girl has her father’s nose. Another boy has curly hair like his mother. But I see it in other ways too. One boy wears the same sneakers as his father, and a mother and daughter both wear their hair in ponytails.
Then I remember. This morning, Gareth wanted to wear his running shoes because I wore mine.
I look at Gareth. He is longer, more boy-like than child-like, and when I look into his face it is like looking into a mirror. But he is not me.
He is not shy; he talks with everyone. He has his mother’s quick wit and gets frustrated when I can’t keep up. When he sits at his desk, he talks to the girl next to him. He uses hand gestures and throws his head back when he laughs.
And then it happens. He asks his teacher if he can use the bathroom and I know I can leave now.
