(after Frank Ocean’s mom)
Many five-year-olds have shown up on the first day of school and become a little teary-eyed when it’s time to say goodbye. They’ve gotten hooked on mom and dad and the whole routine so it’s hard for them to suddenly be out in the world alone. But listen: I go to work, you go to school—learning is your job now.
Listen to your teacher and you’ll be fine. If you don’t understand something, ask questions—but don’t ask too many. The last thing you want to be seen as is disruptive.
Try very hard to exert self-control and do not cave in to your normal impulses. I am referring specifically to your recent obsession with farting. I do not need to be called in for a conference where they ask me what I am feeding you. Perform your emissions in private, silently, and—if possible—outside.
Sometimes it drives me crazy that I will never know what’s going on inside your head.
I packed you a coat—be sure not to misplace it. Otherwise, they’ll make you get one out of the lost and found. They don’t call it the lost and found anymore. They call it the “care closet” to make it sound like it’s not full of unwanted things.
I wish that zippers didn’t give you so much trouble. But at least you can take your shoes on and off. Thank god for rubber laces.
You will make friends. Just remember that friendships are fickle—at every age, but especially at your age, and especially at my age. Don’t be surprised if somebody says they’re your best friend one day and then the next day they’re not. All of that is out of your control. Part of growing up is learning how to let go.
You are so big now, so incomprehensibly big. The little soft spot on your skull that I used to run my thumb over when you were tiny has hardened. Your headbutts hurt. So keep your head and your hands and all your other appendages to yourself and yourself alone.
Drink plenty of water so your lips don’t get chapped. All the lip balm in the world won’t make a bit of difference if you don’t drink water.
If they serve spaghetti at lunch, cut your noodles with your fork before you eat them the way I taught you so you don’t end up with sauce all over your shirt. You should be well aware by now how often I forget to treat the stains in our laundry.
Show and Tell is on Fridays. Apparently there is always a theme, so you can’t just bring any little gewgaw. That’s your teacher’s rule. And whatever you bring has to fit in the front pocket of your little backpack. That’s my rule.
Regarding end-of-day procedures: at ten till three you will line up outside with your class. When you see me, run over and tell your teacher. I gather that some sort of official acknowledgement must take place between you, me, and your teacher before you will be allowed to leave. A head nod, a verbal assent, something. There are so many safeguards in place, so many processes, all designed to make it practically impossible for a stranger to kidnap you.
After I pick you up, we will walk through the park to the car. You may hold my hand if you want, but I won’t force it—I don’t want to embarrass you in front of the other kids. As we walk, I want you to tell me all about your day. While you do that, I will try not to be distracted by all the things I am doing wrong, all the bad habits I refuse to break, and all the responsibilities into which I cannot bear to pour more than half of my heart. And if I pause briefly as I buckle you into your car seat (which is something you should’ve long since figured out how to do yourself), don’t be alarmed. I’ll snap out of it in a moment, just as soon as I get done realizing that it doesn’t bug me that I can’t be myself around you—it bugs me that I shouldn’t be myself.
John Waddy Bullion’s writing has appeared in BULL, HAD, X-R-A-Y, the Texas Review, Hunger Mountain, and Vol 1. Brooklyn, among other fine places. He lives in Fort Worth, Texas, with his family. Visit him online at johnwaddybullion.com.
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