Third Grade

Isabelle started school this week as a third grader.  I've spent the whole week 

wondering how my baby can be old enough to read and solve math problems and write 

in cursive.  Time certainly does fly.  This year is quite special as she is attending a 

new school, leaving behind the school she has attended since she was 

in preschool.  I have mixed feelings about this: as a rule, I don't like moving, I 

don't really like change.  I love being comfortable and knowing my surroundings and 

building a strong community.  But I know that this move is going to bring some 

positive changes into Belle's academic career.  Plus, her cousin and best friend Sarah 

was accepted and is making the move, too.  They are basically a package deal, these two.

And if there's anything we've learned over the last few months, it's that sometimes a 

change truly can do you good.

The first day of school was full of rituals: a big breakfast, arguments over which headband 

to wear, nervous jitters, and a sweet new backpack.  We met up with Sarah at my 

aunt's house for a photo shoot, the girls so excited in their new uniforms.  My aunt and 

I drove them to school: our first day tradition.  We walked them to class, meeting a few 

new faces along the way.  Everyone was friendly, the girls both smiling as they took

 their seats with their brave faces on.  I walked back to my car and cried a little bit, so 

proud of my daughter and her strong, confident character.  I knew that she would be fine 

at her new school, she would make new friends and integrate well.  Belle has a kind soul 

and a strong sense of self, she works hard and tries her best.  

What more could a mother ask for?

I made sure I was home every afternoon this week to greet her when she ran off the

 school bus: papers flying and stories spilling out of her mouth before she could even

 get down the driveway.  Shawn sits with her in the office and helps her with her 

homework while I make dinner and look after Brees.  My husband has worked on oil rigs

 in the Gulf of Mexico since Belle was born, traveling for work constantly and rarely home 

in the late afternoon homework hours.  He confided in me last night that one of the 

bright spots of his accident are that he can be home with us now, he can help his little 

girl learn her spelling words, watch her grow and change and develop.  Watching the two 

of them together, heads down and pencils sharpened: I can feel my soul beginning to 

heal from the trauma we have endured.  I can begin to see a purpose so much 

greater than us.