Although it’s been a few years since graduation, somehow September still feels like it’s supposed to be the start of a new year. Crisp mornings, increased traffic flow, the buzz of students flocking the streets, and the introduction of all things pumpkin spice hitting the shelves.
When you are in school, September feels almost magical, it feels like a time of reinvention, a time when anything is possible, and the world is your oyster. Perhaps this is because there is so much emphasis placed on the start of the year, setting the tone for a good year with new pencils, binders, books and let’s not forget, the all-important back to school outfit!
The past few years my social media feed has been flooded with back-to-school photoshoots showcasing bright eyed and bushy tailed youngsters eager to embark on their academic journeys. What’s not shown in these pictures is the stories that float around the office an hour later from exacerbated parents who tell tales of having to tackle their children who decided to make a run for it seconds after they passed through the classroom threshold.
I don’t remember the back-to-school photos being a common occurrence when I was growing up. Perhaps this is a new phenomenon brought on by the world of social media, or maybe I was just out of the loop on these things. I also don’t remember ever trying to run during drop offs. What I do remember, is the story of my dad getting a phone call before the start school that mimicked the old TV broadcasts stating the time and asking parents if they knew where their child was.
This phone call was rather shocking of course, considering as far as my parents knew they had dropped me off at daycare that morning. Yet there I was, wandering the halls of the school until an older student found me and brought me to the principal’s office. I knew I was starting school that year, and when the day care asked who was going to school that day, I promptly raised my hand. Accepting this raised hand as a factual statement, they proceeded to load me onto the bus and ship me off – never mind the fact that it was a staggered start, and I wasn’t supposed to be there for another week! This of course begs the question…Who takes a four-year old’s word as gospel?