My girl started first grade last week. The night before school began, I asked her if she was nervous. She squared her little shoulders, said no.
Then she looked at me.
"But Mommy," she said, "there are no toys."
I thought about it. It's true -- when we visited her classroom on Meet the Teacher night, there had been no toys. Not like the kindergarten room. There were books, certainly, and science stations and school supplies, but also regular desks and more outward signs of Learning.
"That's true," I said, "but the teacher said there are still two recesses, just like before. And music and art and P.E. It's not like you won't still get to play."
She looked dubiously at me, as though maybe I were holding out, maybe the teacher had toys secretly hidden under her desk.
"You're right, Baby Duck," I said. "There are no toys. This is first grade. Real school. Serious business, but still okay."
She sighed.
"The funny thing? You might find you like it this way better. You're not a baby anymore."
Her eyes filled.
"Do you need a hug?" I asked.
She climbed into my lap and I wrapped my arms around her, breathing in her smell, so different from the baby smell, this one a mixture of sweat and grass and new leather tennis shoes. I patted her hair, rubbed her back. She dug her fingers into my shoulders.
"Do you remember what it was like?" she asked. She often asks me this, as I've told her stories of my childhood every since she was old enough to remember them.
"I don't remember first grade, exactly, but I remember what you're feeling."
She hugged me again. And I did remember the bittersweet pain and anticipation of moving on to the next stage. Wanting stasis and change all at the same time.
I looked down at her face, which has lengthened in the past year.
"It's okay to grow up," I whispered.
