It’s the first day of school, and things are back to normal, or the new normal for Fall 2016.  Another summer has passed.  Another summer that was dominated by working on our house.  Another summer when I took Polina to the beach a whopping one time- for her birthday party.

Where did the time go?  How did I feel so busy yet not find time to take my daughter to the beach?  (Is that an oxymoron?)  How did I get swallowed up by minutia?  Being busy used to be a temporary state followed by a return to normalcy.  How did “being busy” become the status quo?

I registered Polina to go to Russian preschool twice a week this year, on Tuesdays and Wednesdays.  (I wrote about why I send my daughter to Russian school here.)  We were the first to arrive, along with the grandfather mentioned in this post, who brought his grandson’s younger brother.  This is our third school year bringing our child/grandchildren to the same school.

The director of the school met us at the door.

“Happy New Year,” I said to her.

She smiled that knowing smile that comes from having contact with someone several times  a week for the past year and a half.  Small amount of contact over a long time builds a knowing relationship that rivals sporadic longer contact. [pullquote]Small amount of contact over a long time builds a knowing relationship that rivals sporadic longer contact.[/pullquote]

As we chatted, another girl came with her mother carrying flowers.  I had forgotten about the flowers.  In Russia, children traditionally bring flowers to their teachers on the first day of school.  I excused myself and drove to a nearby supermarket.

As I drove to the supermarket, I felt a feeling of optimism that comes, albeit briefly, with a new year.  Then another experience came to my mind, one that I had a year and a half earlier.  It was on our first visit to the school.  As the teacher welcomed Polina, who took her seat on a little chair at a knee high communal table, I felt acutely that the the torch had passed.  Previously, we had taken part in activities together.  This time, I sat on the sidelines (literally by the walls of the classroom).  The teacher looked at Polina and I wondered- why isn’t she looking at me?  I wanted to be a part of the class too, and then I came back to my senses.  I was in Polina’s spot almost four decades ago.  Now it was her turn.  The torch had passed, and I better get used to it.  She was starting her own journey with other people as mentors.  It was the start of a new life, while I had reached midway with mine.  She is going up the escalator, I was going down, as it should be I reason.

During playtime today, I overheard the teacher talk to a student who was quietly crying for most of the class.

“Look at  [A], she’s a girl, and she’s not crying.  Girls cry more than boys.  Boys don’t cry.  Do you want to be a soldier?  Do you want to drive a car?  How are you going to drive a car crying?   Silniy chelovek mushchina, nekogda ne plachet. (“A strong person, a man, never cries.)”

The next day, the boy’s father commented, “You’re crying so much people are going to think you’re a girl.”

Hello Russian culture.