Here are a few remnants of summer from yesterday: Huck on the brand new front porch (which was covered in empty boxes just moments before) in his favorite t-shirt (which has a huge toothpaste stain front and center) with his surfer dude hairdo, suntan from hours and hours at the pool, an uncharacteristic fist of anxiety, sneakers that are a little too big for me, and an enormously heavy backpack containing magnetic items from Walgreens for his locker.

And here are the rubber bracelets he’s been wearing non-stop, only taking them off in the car as we pulled up to Owl Creek Middle School because I told him he should.  I don’t know why; it just felt like on the first day of school his lower arm and wrist area ought to be free.

This child has had many a new school experience for his young age, and because of the way Fayetteville does things he’ll have two more before he graduates high school.  Maybe by then I’ll be less of a secret basket-case and more smooth in my ways.  Yesterday morning while packing his lunch I asked if he still wanted a love note.  Both answers would have been fine with me.  Frankly, six years of lunch love notes has not been easy.  My messages are all are starting to sound alike.  He paused and said, “Sure.”  So I quickly sprawled something out, adding a decorative “BUS N!” just in case he needed reminding how he was getting home that day, which is one of my signature moves.  Hours later I called the school and told the front office he would be taking the N Bus home with his good friend, since the school bus office told me that’s what I should do when he’s not getting off at his stop.  I was feeling a little nervous about the whole thing and thinking his right arm must be feeling so empty and cold.

By some miracle of the universe, Huck survived the first day of middle school, including the bus part.   As I tucked him into bed last night I asked innocently enough, “Did anyone at the school make sure you got on the right bus?”  His face went through several complex emotions.  ”Because I called the school,” I explained.  It all began to make sense.  ”Oh …” he said both quickly and slowly.  ”The bus office told me to,” I added.  His face softened and he looked at me like I was a hurt puppy.  ”So that’s what … the bus office told you …  Mom?  Don’t put any more notes in my lunch anymore.  I’m sorry, but just don’t.”   He continued to tell me that in the middle of the day over the loudspeaker came a voice that said, “HUCK SCHREMMER IS GOING HOME WITH HIS FRIEND ON THE N BUS!” which is apparently not a middle school dream come true.  He pointed out that I quizzed him many times in the morning about the N bus and that I even put it in his very last lunch note.   If I am understanding him correctly, he thinks I overdid it with the bus reminders.

As I was about to leave him for the night he asked if he could have the last note to keep forever.  I admitted I threw it away.  He asked if I’d get it out of the recycling, and since I was already pretty low status, that’s what I did.  When I brought it back to him he looked at it for a minute and asked if we could frame it.  By now I was feeling like a celebrity again.  ”Sure, we can frame it,” I said, already mentally picking out some cute frames that would really make it stand out.

“We’ll hang it in my closet,” he said sweetly.