I've been in your shoes. As a parent, I've greeted the first day of school with wonder and excitement, trepidation and worry. It's as if we visit all those feelings that we had as youngsters on our own children. Naturally, it's because school is a transformative time, a period where physical, emotional, and academic growth are profound.
My daughters seemed to ease into their first days. My sons made them memorable.
I dropped my oldest son for his first day in pre-kindergarten more than two decades ago. My wife and I walked him into the little gathering before school started where he'd meet his teacher and classmates for the first time. I entered the room assessing the other kids, trying to figure out which ones would be his friends and which ones would be competitors. That's what dads do.
My wife, on the other hand, sat on the floor cross-legged and other people's kids came to her, sitting in her lap as she asked names and complimented hair bows and haircuts. Finally, the teacher called the initial meeting to order.
She explained the process of learning in a beautifully simple way. My mind wandered as her voice turned into a melody floating among the colorful walls, large storybooks, and little tables and chairs. It was peaceful and I felt my pulse slowing. Then, I heard her say, "What's your name, little boy?"
Beside me, a guttural, sing-song voice that I'd never heard before answered, "Chocolate milk." I thought, man, that kid's parents are going to have it tough.
The teacher said sweetly, "I asked what your name is."
The voice that sounded like a lifetime smoker trying to sing soprano answered again, "Chocolate milk."
Then I recognized it. My son. I looked to my wife and she mouthed, "What the ..." Thankfully, the teacher's voice interrupted her before she could finish the sentence.
"Well, that's an interesting name Mr. Milk. We'll get back to you."
I left that first day drop-off wondering what just happened. And I felt that lifelong prayer that every parent has for their child on the first day of school rise into my throat: I hope he'll be okay.
I remember dropping my second son at his first day of sixth grade, the grade where everything seems to get real, locker assignments materialize and courses require a bit of adult-like analysis. I pulled up to the school that day with the fleeting thought that I'd walk him in, but he hopped out of the car and ditched me for his best friend. I rolled down the window to say goodbye and give him some sort of dad advice for his first day. Before I could, he bobbed his chin toward me, as in, "See ya, dad."
Oh, that pre-teen overconfidence. They think they know everything but really, the void is still slowly filling. As he walked into the school building, I felt that warmth of hope rise into my throat and form into a thought again: I hope he'll be okay.
My third son started ninth grade not too long ago. I didn't drop him off; rather, we walked into the same building together which, of course, was much worse for him. By high school, kids should have the wherewithal to navigate the basics of independence and advocate for themselves. But my son's high school principal was his dad. Every schoolboy's dream.
We walked in very early that day and I noted the cafeteria was already full of kids, most of them upperclassmen. We said goodbye nonchalantly and he waded into the mass of teenagers before him. Using that enhanced peripheral vision that all parents have, I watched him out of the corner of my eye.
He walked up to the only other newly minted freshman in the cafeteria and sat down next to him. I heard him say, "Well, it looks like it's you and me to start the year. I'm Jed."
The other freshman dramatically rolled his eyes, stood up, gathered his books, and sauntered off.
Two things rose in my chest immediately. The first was the urge to expel that kid on the spot. The second was that familiar incantation directed at my son: I hope he'll be okay.
That's the essence of the first day of school, the first steps in that transformative journey of education--we hope our children will do the right thing, will belong, will embrace what's before them.
We hope they'll understand that soft failures are vital teachers, that they'll have to earn what they receive in this world, that they'll get up every time they fall down. And we fervently pray that the adults who've been given the awesome task of guiding them will recognize all those unique qualities that make our children ... our children.
Our state is dotted with so many great schools that do just that, that are far more than just academic success or athletic achievement. They understand that great schools also emphasize character and soul.
No one is born with good character. Character is built; it is hewn with lessons both taught and modeled. Soul, on the other hand, is that essence of goodness we're all imbued with, that unites us with our fellow man. Soul is always there, but it needs to expand, to be shared, to be encouraged through the adults who do the right thing simply because it is the right thing.
It all begins with the first day.
Last May, I watched my third son walk across the graduation stage. He looked so much older than his freshman year in that first-day cafeteria. He looked confident and enthused about his future. He grasped his diploma tightly and silently walked back to his seat, a broad smile his gift to his mother and me.
And I thought, yeah, he's going to be okay.
Steve Straessle is the principal of Little Rock Catholic High School for Boys. You can reach him at sstraessle@lrchs.org. Find him on Twitter @steve_straessle. "The Strenuous Life" appears every other Saturday.