THIS IS RIGHT
By Sarah Morford
It’s late-May. I’m standing on the steps of North Hi Mount taking a picture of the magnolia tree to show my kids. We’ve flown into Fort Worth for 36 hours to try to find and buy a house, all in time for our firstborn to start Kindergarten in the fall. I stand under the magnolia tree and look up at the steps; although the streets are eerily quiet that day, mid-pandemic, I can close my eyes and see their blonde heads walking away from me, turning to wave goodbye, walking into their school. This is right, I think.
In a flash, it’s mid-July, moving day. I’m no stranger to boxes, forwarded mail, approaching strangers at the park. Our family has lived in four cities in five years, but only one of them has been by choice. Last Spring, just as the world was locking down, and after twenty years in the US Army, my husband retired, and we chose to move to and start the next phase of our life in Fort Worth, a city where we knew no one. We knew we needed to choose our community carefully. North Hi Mount spoke to us: a neighborhood school at the center, sidewalks to walk our kids to school, and a community of families that reflects the world in all of its rich diversity. From the outset, we could see that NHM was a place where our kids would be known and seen for their unique gifts and contributions. Where we could grow and thrive as a family. I hit the “register” button for them both, Pre-K and K. This is right, I think.
It’s early October. The boxes have long been unpacked, the uniforms have been purchased. Still, nothing could have prepared me for the first day. Yes, the familiar magnolia was there, but nothing looked the way I pictured it. The pandemic first day of Kindergarten in a new city is not something I will ever forget. As I trailed behind those two blonde heads, bleary-eyed, I was once again inspired by my children, their bravery, resilience, and perseverance in the face of the unknown. They skipped, hand in hand, through the doors, guided by teachers, flanked by future friends. This is right, I think.
The leaves are falling off the trees, and there is a chill in the morning air. It’s early-November. I can barely keep up with them in the mornings anymore. Despite the masks, the distancing, the oddities of this year, the alarm clocks and early rising, they wake up every single day wanting to go to school, to be seen, known, loved, challenged and encouraged. They run in the doors some days before I even have the chance to say goodbye and “Be kind. Be brave.” I’m growing used to the routine: walk home, pour a cup of coffee, clear the breakfast dishes, drink the coffee hot. Still, my heart quickens as the clock inches closer to 2:15. My favorite moment of the day is when George emerges, sees me, runs into my arms, eager to tell me about the letter of the day, Fernando the frog’s antics, and what he ate (or didn’t touch) for lunch. Most days, we sit on the bench by the NHM sign and catch up and look for bugs while we wait for Marilyn. When she emerges, she tells you about her day the way I always dreamt a child would; no detail left out. She loves to lecture us using the Healthy Living tips from Dr. Blanchard’s announcements, and always shares who was distracting, who was listening, and how she helped Mrs. Thompson. The two of them still get a kick out of randomly seeing each other throughout the school day, and love recounting it to me proudly. Yes, this is right.
Some days, on my neighborhood runs, I route myself past the schoolyard on purpose. On a nice Texas day, one class is in the outdoor classroom, another in a large circle on the field, and still more are on the playgrounds themselves. I watch the kids run, play, interact, learn, and process. You can see the relationships, the trust, and the bonds among the teachers and the kids. I stand in the distance, and I think to myself, oh yes, this is right.
Sarah is a part-time admissions professional, part-time lunch packer, casual freelance writer and aspiring PTA volunteer.
The things she misses the most are parties, hugs and spontaneous getaways.