This was the question hanging out there on our neighborhood social network last week.
I had to think. When does school actually start and end? These days, only thing I’m sure of is what time I have to shoo kids out the door to catch the bus, or to get on the road in time to beat traffic.
Last year was the end of our ushering anybody into the venerable halls of elementary school. It was also the end of my keeping track of exact school start times.
I used to know. I used to calibrate all our clocks in the house to the school bell right down to the second. We needed every minute of the morning. It wasn’t uncommon for me to deposit a kid at the crosswalk or at the edge of the drop-off late enough he had to sprint across the playground to hit the door before the tardy bell. The difference of one second could mean escaping the notice of the duty in her bright, yellow vest, or hearing “stop by the office for a tardy slip, sweetie.”
There I’d be, the lone mom in the drop off area, calling out to my kid and all his fellow latecomers from the car like we’d just hit ground on the beaches at Normandy.
“Run, you sons of bitches, RUUUN!”