The End of Recess

Driving home this morning, with the windows down, I found myself sulking. There was nothing in particular wrong. The sky was blue, and the breeze warm.

But somewhere between the stoplight and the curve past the second roundabout, I felt that familiar end-of-summer melancholy tugging at me. And it hit me—I am not looking forward to school starting again.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I haven’t been in school since the Carter administration, and I haven’t had to raise a school-aged kid since Obama. But here I am, sixty-five years old and still carrying that same knot-in-the-gut feeling I used to get around the third week of August.

Back then, it was about homework, alarm clocks, and wearing shoes every day. Now, it’s about school speed zones because there is no sadness like the sadness of suddenly remembering that 15 miles per hour applies again.

It never fails. I’ll be humming along at a respectable 35 or so, sun in my eyes, when I see that blinking yellow light up ahead and instantly feel like I’ve committed a felony. My foot slams the brake, then I’ll check the mirror for police cruisers as if I’ve just pulled off a heist.

What’s worse is that the children don’t even look impressed by the courtesy. Half of them have earbuds in, not a one of them waves.

Back in my day, if someone slowed down for you, you gave a nod. Maybe a two-finger wave off the top of your lunchbox. These days, I’m just an obstacle between them and TikTok.

I used to love school zones when I was a kid. They meant I was there, the adventure was about to begin, and I might see that girl from homeroom. Now they’re just a timed trap, sneaking up on you with stern signage and moral obligation.

The funny thing is, despite all my grumbling, I still get a little nostalgic. I see the kids bouncing and the moms trying to comb hair in the rearview mirror. And I remember that odd, hopeful feeling of the first day, with the new pencils, a clean shirt, and a lunchbox packed with a PB&J and an apple.

So, yes, I suppose I do still complain like a ten-year-old. The difference is, at ten, I had to go to school. At sixty-five, I have to drive past it slowly and try not to spill coffee on my lap. Progress, I guess.

Anyway, summer’s not over yet—not officially. I’ll soak up what I can before those flashing yellow lights become a daily part of my morning routine again.

Until then, I’ll keep driving a little too fast and pretending it’s still July.