First day of kindergarten

walking backpack kindergarten

First Day K run-tych


stroller boy dad phone


first day K playground scene


boys on playground first day K


  first day K 8 friends


  sparkly sneaker envy first day school


first day K 10

I love most the progression: excitement, trepidation, near panic, joy, contentment, fashion choice dissection. Later, in the post-school photo: exuberance hurriedly filling a hole left by weeks of anticipation and anxiety.

I don’t remember the crush of a schoolyard entrance. I remember Mrs. Calvin’s pre-fab skirt and top outfit patterned with fish, a sunny spot on the rug, the confusing discovery that some kids were already reading.

It seems unfair: to send the kids inside while that hard blue sky waits and no one is on the swings. But maybe September is for parents. We can read the paper in the sun and pretend for a minute we are a dreamy students skipping class.

Remembering a lyrical ode to early September days I just googled “poem Auden September.”  It’s not like that at all. But I feel close to the poem, even if I forgot the details. We shared a vulnerable time after 9/11. And I guess it came to be because it’s now as September-ish as fair high-pressure skies and  seed pods about ready to burst. 

The poem does–with its gray talk of the State–tie into the start of school. I fret about how my son might be changed in by all-day kindergarten in a NYC public school with the ogre of high stakes testing, the lack of outside time, the missed chimerical nature walks we’d be having-–i.e., the crushing of his tender soul.

I try to remember that I also went to school and came out as dreamy as ever.

The last stanza of “September 1, 1939,”[2] by W. H. Auden:

Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.

Here’s to a soul-broadening, wonder-blossoming year of school.

  1. My mom might tell me this is yet another case of making up my own mythology. My husband calls it exaggerating. To me, it’s a better form of truth. Supposedly once I went missing from school. Maybe I walked to school and never made it, maybe I wandered out the front door. I was found calmly picking dandelions in the front lawn.  ↩
  2. For more on this poem, later renounced by Auden as “dishonest,” and the 9/11 attention it received check out this piece.  ↩

Hansel and Gretel at summer’s end

pebbles path toddler Seaside Park









I thought a lot about Hansel and Gretel while taking and editing these photos. We’d just gotten Cynthia Rylant’s version of the tale; it was in heavy rotation. [1]

Rylant’s version of Hansel and Gretel is dreamily illustrated by Jen Corace.


(As my dad said, these children may be starving but they have very nice clothes.) Her re-telling focuses not on the cruelty of the parents, the terrors of the woods or the sweet delights of the gingerbread house but on the self-reliance of the children.

It has been said that guardian spirits watch over and protect small children, and that may be so. But there are also stories of children who find the courage to protect themselves.

Hansel is the brains behind the pebbles and the best-laid-plans breadcrumbs. He  comforts and assures his sister. But there can be no version where Gretel doesn’t stuff the old witch into a hot oven. And Rylant’s Gretel isn’t the helpless sweetling who needs her brother to come up with all the ideas. She has agency and chutzpa, physical strength. The witch-stuffing is all her.

Rylant throws the children’s father a bone: he agreed to abandon them while under the step-mother’s spell–magical or romantic unspecified.  (I imagine that, as in Snow White, the mother became a “step-” as the tale ripened into a slightly less appalling modern version.)

Greek tragedy-scale familial relations aside, I worried  my son would get nervous if we ran out of bread or I took him and his sister into the woods. But he loves Hansel and Gretel in any of the iterations I’ve shared–morbid, cruel, “original” Grimm-esque [2] or cartoonish and candy-focused. And I now find myself thinking of the story when I watch my son and daughter together–-in nature or during any moment of deep play that leaves them cloistered in their own world.

I inscribed this line in the copy of Rylant’s Hansel and Gretel I gave my son on the first day of pre-k.

Take courage always.

Our day at Island Beach State Park (complete with Pecan Sandies that got all sandy, to my four-year old’s tickled fancy) was more of an late summer idyll than a terror-filled test of inner fortitude. But I loved seeing the children walk ahead and explore the golden-rod lined paths as I hung back with my camera, imagining them growing into big kids who will help each other find inner strength.

  1. My mother, a reading specialist who teaches a grad-level class about children’s books, introduced me to Newbery Medal winner and librarian Cynthia Rylant’s work. Thanks, ma! Rylant also wrote the Henry and Mudge stories, biographies of Margaret Wise Brown and E. B. White. More here.  ↩
  2. I got way into fairy tales in my olde semeotics days. Having children of fairy-tale reading age is an excuse to re-read and enjoy (and try to reactivate the dormant parts of my brain). We have Taschen’s Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm, which hews pretty closely to the “original” Grimm tales. Each story features gorgeous illustrations from a different, older edition. I am also slowly working my way through Philip Pullman’s Fairy Tales from the Brothers Grimm, an even more original version of each of the tales.  ↩