Uphill, both ways

Showered and dressed, he stood there looking like a different kid than he had in summer. Taller, broader, deeper of voice. More independent. He'd even packed his own bags while I looked on, skepticism written all over my face. 

"You don't really need to bring everything with you today, do you?"

I had used a tone that adults seem immune to, but that somehow drives kids wild with rage and indignation.

"I know what I'm doing," he barked in my direction, almost daring me to challenge him some more. "I need every binder, every notebook, and every single one of those mechanical pencils you said I didn't need."

Who would have thought you'd still need six, two-inch binders and thirty-seven-thousand tab dividers to go along with the school-issued Chromebook during a pandemic.

But here he is, trying to pack the equivalent of a Target aisle into his backpack.

There has never been a back-to-school preparation as fraught as this one. 

Of course, it had started months ago. All the planning, all the guidelines, everyone seemingly at each others' throat lumps trying to figure out best practices for a return to in-person education.

He had everything planned, too. 

Right down to the minute. He'd even taken trial runs.

He would leave the house at precisely 7 a.m., pedal his bike a mile and a half to a local breakfast joint and scarf down a buttered bagel before taking off once more. He'd wind his way north another mile and a half to reach his destination -- school. 

If his calculations were correct, it would take him exactly 32 minutes to get there. Thirty-five minutes if there was a car ahead of him in line at the "Drive-through."

And if my calculations were correct, he would be a sweaty mess once he arrived. His backpack would be heavy. The effort to get it from our house to the school complex, which is at a higher elevation and three miles away, would likely raise his internal temperature a few degrees.

Maybe he should leave at 6:45?

This would leave enough time for him to park his bike, lock it, and rest up a bit, maybe even fan himself gently, so as not to trip any of the heat-seeking devices school authorities would aim at his forehead before granting admission.

He looked at me like I was crazy: 6:45?

"If it takes me an HOUR to get to school, I might as well take the bus, which historically has seemed to circle the known universe twice before reaching its destination."

What was I thinking? Of course, it would be fine. Independence is the goal, and exaggeration is just a family trait. 

Everything would be fine. He'd get to school with butter on his shirt. He'd forget to text us his safe arrival, and we would worry until he got home, all red-faced and satisfied with himself.

He would complain about how hard it is to ride a bike all laden with books and binders. So hard that it seems like uphill both ways.

And how much he looked forward to doing it all again tomorrow.