I was born and raised on the South Shore of Long Island, back in the 1960s and 70s. When I was growing up, the most dreadful holiday was Labor Day. After two full months of no school, it signified the end of summer. Back to school. The worst three words any kid could ever hear. On the other hand, they were the happiest words for parents. Once clothes, shoes, and backpacks were purchased, it meant off to school and their lives were their own again. No more, “Mom, I’m bored” or “What are you planning on doing today?”
My mother was overheard one late June afternoon with her friends. “I hate when I’ve been at home with my kids for two months for summer break and it’s actually only been two weeks.”
And I did not know whether to laugh or cry when I heard another mom respond, “When I think I can’t take it anymore, I just remind myself that it’s only 1,692 hours till school starts again.”
But that was then, and it was July and August.
I moved to Boca Raton in my early thirties. In what feels like a lifetime ago, I was married and raised two boys, discovering the school calendar down here made me yearn for those youthful, carefree days of yesteryear.
The public school system in Palm Beach County begins the second week of August.
Let me repeat that. The public school system in Palm Beach County begins the second week of August.
So, you will say, well, that means school ends early, and it does. But the second week in August?
Back in the day, the second week of August meant that camp would soon come to an end, that we were halfway past summer break, and we had two more months of baseball. It would soon be over. It did not mean it WAS over.
Long Island kids returned from camp that last week in August and schlepped with their mother’s for back to school shopping. We looked at that calendar, wondering where the time went?
Thinking about heading back to that place. “No. No. No. I don’t wanna go back to school. I hate Labor Day!”
It’s funny. I loved when my kids were off from school. I learned to adjust to June and July.
Summer meant they were sleeping when I left for work. Their mother was not screaming at them to eat breakfast, so they would not be late. When I returned home, they were swimming in the backyard with their friends and telling me to put on my bathing suit so we could play pool baseball.
My kids are older now. Number one son is in his second year of college and number two son is a senior in high school. They are born and raised down here, and while going back to school is never fun, they are used to August as their start date.
I never checked with any other parents. I never asked if they felt this was a ridiculously early time to begin school as it is still summer, but it is still the same two months that the kids have been off.
And I never asked if any other parent got the same horrible feeling in the pit of their stomach that I still get as the day gets closer. The anxiety that summer will soon be a distant memory and darkness will soon be upon us.
My twelfth grader takes it all in stride. He asked me why I seemed so upset the day before school started.
Masking my feelings, I smiled. “Oh, some stuff with the job. No big deal. You good with school tomorrow?”
“Yeah. The coach told me to stop by and pick up the athletic forms that must go the doctor. I think that’s a good sign that I may start this year.”
I forgot that the varsity basketball team had been practicing for two weeks. Two weeks before school even started. “What is that, like July?”
“Oh. Okay,” I said, realizing that he was ready to move on.
I stopped in my tracks. I was the one living in the past. I was the one being left behind as I was more nervous about summer ending early than he was.
I was the one seeing the time pass before me in an instant. I was the one who wanted summer to linger on. I was the one who looked up and saw that my little boy was now two inches taller than me.
“Besides,” he said. “I can’t wait until Labor Day. It’s only three weeks away.”
“I hate Labor Day,” I mumbled.