I just walked back in from putting my son on the bus for the last time. There are raindrops still dotting my bare arms and freckling my shirt. It's the last day of school, the last day my son will attend the local elementary school. Come August and the new school year, he'll be starting second grade at the stand-alone gifted school.
I'm delighted -- we're all delighted -- that he got into the gifted school. It's a dream school. I am so enthused about this school, if we were offered the chance to go back to DC and have him attend Sidwell Friends with Sasha and Malia for the same tuition of ZERO, I don't think I'd accept the offer. Not unless there were some guaranteed playdates, the good kind of playdates, the kind where the moms hang out and drink wine while the kids romp around, and even then it'd be a hard choice. The gifted school is THAT fantastic. So I'm thrilled that he's going there in the fall, but at the same time, my poor baby.
He's six years old, and when he starts second grade, it will the FOURTH school he's attended. As we stood waiting for the bus this morning, rain spitting down on us, he looked up sadly and said, "I want to stay at my new school a long time. I mean, when I start there, I want to stay there a long time."
That's the plan, baby. That's the plan.