It was the last day of kindergarten. I stood in the back of Bob's classroom with the other room moms and the two grandma volunteers. I held back tears as we listened to the kids sing Baby Beluga the Whale one final time.
Ms. Vaden stood in front of the board and explained that today, the kids would be taking home their report cards, some paperwork, and their "milk sticks."
On the first day of school, the kindergartners were given tongue depressor sized sticks with their names on them. The children filled in a small self portrait with crayon on both sides. Every morning when they arrived in room ten, the kids each found their stick in a small can and moved it either to the can for white milk, the can for chocolate milk, or the can that represented that they would not be spending fifty cents on milk that day. This was the way attendance was taken and the milk orders were recorded for Mr. Terry so he would know how many milk cartons to deliver to the classroom before snack time.
"Oh, their milk sticks," one of the grandmas repeated with a crack in her voice.
These tiny pieces of wood represented the 180 days of kindergarten. The year our boy started reading and grew three inches in nine months. The year he found Desmond and Felix and Ferruccio and Alessandro and the rest of his pack of guys. The year he found his confidence, his voice, and his love of school.
Next year would mean first grade; hot lunches and homework. They would be with the big kids. There were no milk sticks in first grade.
"Their milk sticks," I repeated. And the tears came.
