The Girl went back to school today for the first time since Friday before last, as in January 5. It’s been a tough ten days, and we still have issues ahead of us, but at least we’re to a point where something of a normal life can return. I never missed ten days for an illness, but I missed significant time in the first semester because of having to go to the Feast of Tabernacles every year (along with the Feast of Trumpets and Atonement, which meant missing more school days). If I’d been as worried about my grades as L is about hers, that probably would have caused me more stress than it did. But then, the founder of our little sect died (38 years ago today, in fact), the new leader made a few changes, and the FOT (as we called it) became a thing of the past. Something the Girl doesn’t have to worry about.

The Boy is still frustrated with his schedule this semester, particularly that he doesn’t have PE anymore. In middle school, I hated PE. In the mid-eighties in Virginia (maybe not the whole state, but at least in our area), there was none of this “you can only fail once before high school” mentality that’s the standard here. (There are benefits to that, to be sure, but I’ve had kids tell me, “I’ve already failed once. There’s nothing you can do to me,” and then promptly do nothing the entire year.) But we didn’t have that, so kids could fail two or three times before getting to high school, which is why when I was in seventh grade (it was a junior high, with only two grades), there were two sixteen-year-old eighth graders. Dodgeball, which we played with those stinging rubber kickball balls, was utter hell. Those kids were strong. But fortunately, E doesn’t have that worry, so he consequently loves PE.

Two ways my childhood was so very different from our children’s.