The air changed this morning. It's still August. Labor Day, the unofficial end of summer, is still a week away, the autumn equinox nearly a month. But something definitely was different, in the air, in the light, in the amount and quality of the energy that surrounds me.

It was the opening day of school for Lynn, the start if her sophomore year in high school. I noticed the other day that she had written "one down, three to go" in today's space on our kitchen calendar, but I'm not sure what she means. After this year there are only two more high school opening days for her, only two more times that she'll wave from the bottom of the driveway and I take a picture of her and her backpack walking away from me. After that, well...

It was a pleasant time out on the driveway this morning, despite the intermittent drizzle that had Lynn howling about her hair. The girl next door, Kay, left with Lynn. She's entering ninth grade, as well as transferring from her Catholic elementary school to the public high school. So there were lots of parents, lots of pictures, and, truth be told, a tear or two, at least in the heart of the other mother, and in mine.

So something in the air changed today, and changed something in my attitude. I'd had such ambitious plans for my writing back there on the first of August, and then I had that gall bladder thing, and a longer recovery than I anticipated, and lots of catching up to do on household details, and lots of other little things that I let become excuses instead of merely annoyances.

I took a deep breath on Saturday, did a one hour "getting current" retreat as recommended by Jennifer Louden in The Woman’s Retreat Book. Home alone (Ron and Lynn were at a field hockey clinic) I played my favorite Celtic harp and flute music, lavished attention on my feet with a soak and a scrub and a lotioned massage (a very soothing practice for me), read some in the new issues of Poets & Writers and Glimmer Train, and got my head back into my writing.

So today was really quite productive for me, centering mostly on the assignments my tutor has given me. Part of my diligence was propelled no doubt by the joy I was taking in knowing that I was NOT attending my own first day of school, enduring my thirty-third annual Ceremonial Reading of the Student Conduct Code ("Page Thixth, Thtudent Dressth," I can hear my former principal intoning, his lisp getting more pronounced as he progresses from the freshmen to the seniors. Yes, he does it four times, taking up the whole morning reading to kids rules they already know and can circumvent with ease.)

I worked all morning, had an energizing, nutritious lunch (part of my renewed efforts to get myself back to where I once belonged physically, intellectually, and spiritually), and then headed out to do some errands.

If there is a center of village life for us here in the suburbs, it's the supermarket. The one most of us in Woodridge and the surrounding developments use is the Giant on Linglestown Road, a two-minute drive from my house. Since the kids got older and we don't sit on the curb in front of Marilyn's house anymore to watch them, this is where I most often see my neighbors to trade news and gossip.

Sure enough, there in front of the cantaloupes and the nectarines, I fell into conversation with another mother whose son is in Lynn's class.

The kids weren't even home from their first day yet and she was already fussing. In particular today she was antsy about English class.

Our kids are in "Honors English," which is sort of a program for particularly gifted or talented students, but to use the word "gifted" is to be obligated to meet a lot of state regulations which most schools find more burdensome than beneficial. The teacher Lynn has this year (and, I hope, for the rest of her time at Susquehanna) is legendary for his brilliance, for being demanding, for setting high standards for himself and for others, and for being tough but fair.

Another mother whose opinion I value swears this man made writers of her two older kids (one of whom was the class valedictorian). I've been disappointed in the writing instruction Lynn has had since leaving elementary school. It's quite possible that instruction in her other subjects has been merely competent as well, but because teaching how to read and write about literature is my field I know canned assignments and uninspired evaluations when I see them.

As I've noted elsewhere, Lynn's heart is in science and technology, not humanities. She speaks well and has a more than adequate grasp of grammar and mechanics, but she lacks the motivation to think and write deeply about literature. And let's not forget that scientists need to write beautifully as well. Pick up some Lewis Thomas or Stephen J. Gould if you don't believe me.

So I'm pleased that Lynn will be exposed to the tutelage of the Marvelous (or perhaps Notorious) Mr. R. this year. My acquaintance, however, is not so sanguine.

She substituted for him last year, she said. She looked in his grade book. Of forty-some tenth grade honors students, there were only 4 A's! I said, well, 10%, that's about right.

That was the wrong thing to say. The other mother went off on an impassioned speech questioning why I didn't "have a problem" with so few A's in an honors class. She referred to other kids as being in "the lower classes." I guess she thinks that in an honors class the kids get the same material and instruction that "the lower classes" get but because they're a little smarter they'll automatically ace it. Her goal in having her son in an honors class is evidently to keep him away from the riffraff in "the lower classes."

My philosophy is that an honors class should present the kids with  sophisticated and complex appraches to the standard literature, with more challenging assignments than one would give average students.

I said that my hope for Lynn is that she would learn to read more deeply and widely than she presently does and to develop a facility for elegant rather than merely pedestrian writing, that she would learn to think independently and trust her own intuition about what makes a piece of writing worth her time and attention, and that she would continue to refine her already efficient work habits.

That was even MORE of the wrong thing to say. The other mother informed me that it does not matter what they learn, all that matters is that they get high grades and high class rank to show to colleges.

I was flabbergasted. I know that this attitude is out there, but I had never actually talked to anyone who espoused it.

Either this woman is way too "enmeshed" in her kid's life, or I'm way too laissez-faire about mine. It seems that her ego is bound up in the boy's performance. My mother was that way about me -- controlling, demanding, never really satisfied with my performance and harshly critical of any choice or preference of mine that didn't advance her agenda for me. My response was to be an indifferent student in high school and to avoid challenge in my early adult life. It took me twenty-five years to even begin to identify and nurture my own talents.

I'm determined to relax about Lynn, to let her be herself. A former student, now a senior in college, said she wishes more parents had that attitude. If parents would just realize what good people their kids are and stop being so suspicious and so controlling, there would be less "acting out" and more joy all around.

That's what I'm after -- joy.