I’m only now getting around to recording this moment from a few weeks ago.

Lucas: "Dad, if Asher and Grandma RoRo had a race, who do you think would win?"
Ian (laughing): "I don’t know. Who do you think would win?"
Lucas: "Definitely Asher."

Dear Lucas,

Today was your first day of school, the first day of first grade. It was an exciting day for all of us. You woke up and got dressed right away! You ate your breakfast without complaint! You were ready to head out the door before any of the rest of us! It was fantastic!

You posed for pictures without objecting. Your beautiful face shone with a quiet pride. You said things like, "Mom, aren’t you glad I passed kindergarten?" As if we ever had the slightest doubt about your abilities, your character, or your brilliance.

You jumped into the car without dilly-dallying. You marched down the steep hill to school, holding my hand the whole way. I loved it. You were nervous. We could tell. But you bravely strode on. You faced dozens of all-new experiences today with grace and dignity and courage. Your father and I are so, so proud of you.

You found your desk and cubby. You greeted old friends and new ones. You shook your new teacher’s hand as she welcomed you to your classroom. You were the last child in line to sit with your classmates at the assembly, sitting right on the edge of the row nearest us. We watched you while the administrator spoke, introduced the faculty, and welcomed all the students back to school. You patiently waited in your chair without much figeting—just a little nose picking.

We photographed you during the ceremony, sitting right beside your teacher and your buddies. You received a flower from a second grader, as is traditional. You then boldly took the hand of a high school senior you had never met before and allowed her to tour you around the school, showing you the classrooms, the play yards, and probably telling you that you are going to be happy here. I wondered if you would someday gently take the hand of a nervous first grader and tour him or her around the school, saying "Welcome. This is a good school. You’ll be fine here."

I didn’t cry. I didn’t feel sad to see my baby all grown up and ready for first grade. I did feel some overwhelming feelings, though. The strongest was pride in you, for you are a magnificent boy. The other feelings washing over me this morning were boundless joy to see you in a school where you will be loved, nurtured, respected for the person you are; fervent hope that you will grow and learn and love your school experiences and your friends; and profound gratitude that you are my son and have graced my life with your presence and love these last seven years.

Congratulations, my son. And welcome to first grade!

Love always,

Mama

The very last day of summer vacation is winding to a close. I couldn’t be happier about it.

I survived. I survived twelve weeks. In a row. It wasn’t easy.

• I have driven my son back and forth, crisscrossing Carmichael and Fair Oaks a hundred thousand times.
• I have facilitated swimming lessons, nature camp, and art camp.
• I have created and enabled a weekly playgroup with six of Lucas’s friends.
• I have pushed children on swings, filled kiddie pools, witnessed countless acts of 6- and 1-year-old bravery and daring.
• I have watched my baby learn to walk and protected him from his own reckless curiousity.
• I have attended family birthday parties and reunions.
• I have visited my elderly grandmother even though she is sometimes mean and makes my son uncomfortable.
• I have sewn tiny pants and crayon cases and a dolly and an alien puppet.
• I have refrained from major spending sprees.
• I have edited at least five books.
• I have drunk more vodka in the last twelve weeks than ever before.

First grade starts tomorrow morning. Tomorrow is the time to reflect on that perfect, beautiful moment when Lucas steps off into a new world.

Tonight, I’m grateful. I made it.