In three weeks, my firstborn will enter middle school.
Cue the scary music.
Also, cue an intense sense of unreality as I weigh the idea that I am now the mother of a middle-school kid. Somehow, when I contemplated all the milestones of parenting (first steps, first words, first day of kindergarten, first graduate degree, first professorship, first Nobel prize) I just skipped right over sixth grade.
I probably don’t have much to worry about from a parenting perspective. My oldest son is a focused and gentle soul, and he’s staying in the same sweet little school he’s attended since he was 4 years old.
But we all carry our own freight around with us on these topics, and my middle-school baggage is not helpful. My memories of middle school are all wrapped up in moving to a new city the summer before sixth grade and embarking on The Worst Year Ever as the Most Neurotic Kid Ever in the Most Awkward Stage Ever.