Sixth grade was an awesome year for me.
Sixth, seventh, and eighth grades were located in a different wing of the school, set off from the other kids, so that even though we went to the same school, we were, in some way, not quite at the same school. It was the best the administration could do to give the older children a more middle school experience.
And that experience, as I said, was awesome. I loved the teacher, the lockers, the respect that we earned as older adolescents in the school. I loved the subjects we learned and the field trips we took. The only down side to sixth grade was that at the end of it, my crush left. Ah, such a wounded heart I had.
As I sit here, on the morning that my tiny girls embark on their own sixth grade year, I actually feel a flutter of anticipation and excitement. We've been over to the school several times already: their lockers are set, they know how to open them, they have their books and supplies and have walked their schedule several times. The lockers and classrooms aren't far from the cafeteria, and thankfully, the girls are close to both the counselor's office and the front office. While I don't think anything will be a problem, knowing that help is literally right around the corner will have me feeling slightly less wonky as the day goes by.
I'm excited and nervous and happy and sad, all rolled into one, and to be truthful, while I thought I was ready for the change, it is now clear to me that once again, I'm not. I'm just not ready. I'd like to say more, but a few tears just formed on my eyelids, and the last bits of the lunches (the parts the girls didn't pack themselves last night) need to be put together. So I'm escaping. When I recover, I'll let you know how the first day went.