First Day of Skewl

Today I dragged my ass out of bed to see Billy off on his first day of sixth grade. In Oregon sixth grade is middle school. So for about two weeks I’ve pestered him about when the first dance will be and whether he will bust out “the lawnmower” when the time is right. “I don’t know!” “I don’t know!” He says. I’ve also insisted he decorate his locker with a life-size picture of my face that will greet him at eye-level when he retrieves his books. He hasn’t completely poo-pooed the idea.

Wanting to be as helpful as possible during the transition to the terrifying land of adolescence, my father instructed on the car ride over that the first day of middle school is kind of like the first day of prison: ”So you better not become some eighth grader’s bitch, Billy.” Then we all agreed were it the fourth-grader Ricky’s first day of middle school he would probably make all the eighth graders his bitches as a matter of course. Side note: Ricky has assured us that he has outgrown fighting and will not punch any more big kids in the face.

When we got to school, mom, dad and I asked Billy a dozen times if he wanted someone to come in and help him find his first period. To which he replied, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, and no. I watched him walk across the foyer in his new, supa-shiny white DC shoes, khaki shorts, ball cap and hoodie, and thought to myself, “My God! All of those clothes match!” The same could not be said for Ricky, who chose to wear an Eagles football jersey and USC basketball shorts to the first day of fourth grade. It’s okay, he has a couple more years.

It’s funny for me to watch Billy enter junior high. Because I was about that age when Billy and Ricky entered my life. Those were impressionable years. Now it’s Billy’s turn to get acne, forget his locker combo, juggle six classes and endure the merciless creatures commonly known as junior high girls.

Haha, suckas!