Yesterday was the first day of school, but the last day of something subtly sacred to me as a father, something that me as a teacher never realized I would miss. This is why it took me a day to recover enough to write of it.
When my daughter was just three months old, we began being carpool partners as I would drop her at daycare in the baby carrier before heading to the land of cubicles and corner offices. I can still see the double-mirror reflection of a grin as she faced backward in the rusty, hand-me-down minivan I drove.
Not long after, I upgraded to Blue Car, what we came to call our Dodge Neon. The morning ritual came to be packing a sippy cup of milk and a cereal bar so that we could have breakfast on the road together. During these toddler days, we made the “Blue Car CD”, which was a collection of shared favorite songs we would blast on the radio together. She still favors that CD.
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Soon enough, and too soon, we started elementary school together. Her first day of kindergarten was my first day as a teacher. As we developed our own unique first and last-day traditions, I never experienced walking her into her classroom, but each morning we rode in and even walked into our new school together, sharing wonders, arguments, songs, and silence. She was always a good carpool partner.
None of this dawned on me as she excitedly prepared for her first day of Middle School. Her school bus was to arrive at 8:04a.m. It was about 7:52 when it hit me that after having her in my backseat every day for her entire nine years of life, I would be driving to work without her for the first time. I conspicuously tried hiding my tears on that cloudy morning behind sunglasses, sitting in Blue Car across from her first bus stop, watching another first step, this time her grin was painfully, proudly not in my rearview mirror.