First Day

Because I will forget this

First day of Prep. First day of year three.

You, older and wiser than your sibling, don’t want to lose face. You have conquered school and want to communicate this to your little sister. You begin by getting yourself breakfast - not common. You serve yourself capsicum fingers, green leaves and carrots because you insist on being healthy - ergo, mature and sophisticated. You eat it happily and surrender to peanut butter sandwiches only when your mother and I insist now is not the best time to fuck with your diet. It’s grade three. You need energy.

You are eager to understand how this morning will work, exactly. Who will be dropped off first? How? Which parent is coming? We decide to all drop off your sister first and then - because saying goodbye to one parent at a time is easier - you will farewell me at the top of the stairs to your classroom, and farewell your mum at the classroom door.

The corridor outside the Prep room is claustrophobic with parents and emotional energy. I feel your disappear inside yourself. You put your earplugs in to lessen the noise. It will be ten minutes or more before the teacher shows up, so I will take you to a quieter corner. We sit on the concrete and look out at the courtyard.

You are nervous. Of course. But you have worked so hard at managing your fear. I compare fingernails with you to distract you. You are proud of your perfect claws. I have pulled at mine - a lifelong habit you’ve already managed to shake.

You ask a perfectly reasonable question. Why is it unhealthy to pick your nails?

And I haven’t got a satisfactory answer for you. Only that sometimes you hurt yourself. Like I have on my ring finger, revealing too-pink, fragile skin.

You should stop it, she says.

I should. I do it when I get anxious. But you have other tools.

You tell me you’d like to say goodbye to me at the bottom of the staircase, not the top, to ensure you can point your classroom out to me so I know where you are. I obey your direction, and you hug me goodbye , satisfied.

The other you - you, yes, you - are bolder and irrepressible. You are ready first and proud of your gleaming white shoes. And then your bubble braid. And then you come to inspect your lunchbox, providing commentary. There is the kerfuffle over ‘fruit snack’, which you want to come in a piece of Tupperware that is leafy with stickers you have decorated. Cucumber won’t fit, and you don’t like any other fresh fruit except for strawberries or watermelon.

Strawberries are too expensive. Sorry, we don’t have any. You sigh. A massive inconvenience. You open the fridge yourself, your forehead barely above the bottom shelf. We have watermelon. And a tiny container. I cut it into cubes. Can you eat it with your hands? No. A toothpick? Yes.

Then you are gone quicker than I can comprehend into the wide world. I wait with your older sister while mum drops you inside. And in the rush, we don’t hug, although I don’t think you really notice. You are too distracted by your classroom and the noise.

It’s only in the afternoon, when we’ve arrived home and talked through the day, that you come and wrap your arms around me and squeeze me with violent affection.

We didn’t hug this morning, you say.

No we didn’t. But we’re hugging now, I offer.

And then you eat frozen yoghurt.