AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Olivia's First Day DATE: 9/12/2004 05:15:00 PM ----- BODY:

Tomorrow is Olivia's first day of school. We've enrolled her in a school where students begin at age three, and go all the way through 8^th grade. She'll attend class five days a week, 8:30 till noon. Next year, at age four, she'll be in school all day, with the big kids. Because of the way the curriculum is structured, there won't be a "real" first day when she reaches kindergarten age. This is truly it. She's excited, thrilled, and absolutely ready for school. She wants to be like her big brother, like the older kids in our neighborhood. She wants to have a teacher, and a backpack, books, pencils, and new friends her own age to play with. She's already planning to bring her giant dinosaur bone in for show and tell. (Someone with a lesser imagination might call her Tyrannosaurus bone a deer femur, but they weren't with her dad in the Utah desert when he unearthed it and besides, that kind of nitpicking just ruins the fun for everyone.) She's been counting the days, ticking off the number of nighttime sleeps that stand between her and her classroom: 13, then 8, now 1. Her teacher recently asked us if we thought Olivia might have any separation anxieties on the Big Day. We had to laugh. This is a child who, without so much as a sniffle or a backward glance, breezed off to Wisconsin for a weeklong visit with her grandparents last May. Every time I called there to check on her, she'd chat for a minute or two then say, "Well, I'm very busy playing now, Mommy. Goodbye." And dropping the phone with a clatter, off she'd go. It's a pretty sure bet that the only person crying or battling anxiety on the first day of school will be me. Parents nowadays seem to celebrate every last childhood milestone in a way that earlier generations didn't. I don't recall much of a fuss being made over my transition from kindergarten to first grade, but my nieces and nephews all participated in full-blown graduation ceremonies, complete with tiny caps and gowns. I don't have a baby book, and my husband's, though charming, is lean on details. My cousin Renee, on the other hand, is a scrapbook-making Type A lunatic who has documented every movement and utterance of her three children, complete with photos, ticket stubs, and construction paper hieroglyphs. I feel panicky just talking to her -- how many memories have I already let carelessly slip away? Renee made sure to lecture me on the historic and emotional importance of The First Day of School. She's given me very clear instructions for Olivia's big moment: what photos to take, what questions to ask. Apparently I'll need a digital, a video, and a 35mm camera. The fall of Saigon wasn't so well documented as my three year-old daughter's entry into nursery school will be. While I'm fighting back tears tomorrow morning, Olivia's one year-old sister, Caramia, will be celebrating. She can't wait to get rid of her tormenter. No matter what toy Caramia picks up, Olivia suddenly wants it. Worse, after she snatches whatever it is -- a stuffed elephant, a baby stegosaurus, a plastic teacup -- she dashes up to her room and squirrels it away. Much as we work on the concept of sharing, on ours versus yours or mine, Olivia has it only halfway figured out. Just before pouncing on the baby she'll announce, "Tiny wants to share her toy with me now." Countless times each day this scenario plays itself out: yank! Scream! Then Olivia barrels off, triumphant. For poor Tiny Caramia, this kind of sharing never seems to work in her favor. Olivia treats the sharing of her toys as a tragedy, an injustice, an occasion for heart-rending wails and dramatic proclamations. "I can't share my mommy meat-eater EVER! Ever Tiny! You give it back to me right this minute!" These bellows are delivered at shattering volume, accompanied by grandiose gestures, and streams of tears. It's hilarious. But it will also drive you very nearly out of your mind. At moments like these, Mark and I look at each other, both silently calculating the number of hours remaining before the doors of that school are blissfully unlocked. I suspect that Caramia is counting the hours, too. She wants her daddy all to herself; something Olivia had every morning for two years. And she wouldn't mind being able to rummage in the toy box to her heart's content, without getting an impatient bonk on the head from her big sister. I think that everything is finally ready. Olivia's uniforms are lined up neatly in the closet. She has new sneakers, white with pink and silver sparkly trim. Her Olivia the pig backpack, the one that Bob's oldest daughter found for her last Christmas in New York, is waiting to be stuffed with a snack and a juice box and a change of clothes, just in case. Her daddy has trimmed her hair, and I've taken the day off from work. We have plenty of film and batteries. We'll wake up early and have a good breakfast, but still scramble for barrettes and car keys and mobile phones -- because no amount of planning seems to make getting out of the door any easier. We'll drive the few miles between our home and school, and I know that Olivia will be excited and chattering, full of enthusiasm and ideas, just like always. She wouldn't understand the lump in my throat, or my sorrow at parting. After all, as she's informed me, she'll see me again in time for lunch. But I know that Olivia's first step across that school threshold is also her first step into an independent life, her life, away from me. She's been ours alone since the day we brought her home from the hospital. And tomorrow, for the very first time, we have to let our baby go.

--------