The journey of a one-thousand-step school year begins with the first week, the corrupted Chinese proverb goes, although in my case it feels like the first hill of a nine-month roller coaster.

After edging your way to the top, from which you see a too-brief overview of what’s ahead, then you plunge screaming into a bumping, twisting progression of activity-filled calendars that leaves you tired and panting at the end. And I’m a father, two degrees separated from life in the classrooms and the hallways.

This year’s first day of school meant another year of teaching elementary school music for my wife, Paula, the first day as Waco High School juniors for daughters Hallie and Helen and the first day of third grade for Harper. For me, it was a slight change in the passenger load of the morning school transport.

Honestly, special days tend to settle into a part of my brain that’s fuzzier than others. One of my wife’s most dangerous questions is, “Do you know what today is?” Birthday in immediate family? Some other family member? Wedding anniversary? Garbage pickup day? Tuesday?

As a kid, the first day of school for me usually meant high anxiety. My dad worked for the Forest Service and we moved about every three to five years. By the time I started 10th grade at Callaway High School in Jackson, Miss., I had attended six other schools in four states. My first days often were as the new kid in town, more a stomach-churning experience than a Kodak moment.

My girls, all Waco born-and-bred, have had slightly different experiences, either knowing other students in their classes or, during elementary school, at least one teacher — Mom — from the start of school.

Paula, our family logistician, has handled most of the traditional start-of-school preparations with our girls: the buying of school supplies and school clothes, the boxes of Kleenexes, pencils and crayons. This month was a milestone for her: the first year in which a daughter’s school supply list did not include crayons (she bought some anyway).

Younger families may have different traditions: new backpacks and cell phone protectors, standing in long store checkout lines on tax-free weekend, griping at annual changes in school dress codes, taking first-day pictures and posting them on Facebook (aw, Mom).

The first-day changes I notice from year to year, at least since the older girls started attending secondary school, lie in the morning taxi route. Mornings once meant picking up two middle school friends for transportation several times a week, then one friend. Last year, it was just the high school daughters, but daily. This year, so far, it’s one daughter, Hallie.

As she stepped out of the car last Monday, I felt an unexpected pang at an otherwise routine first day: Next year will be her last.

That one even Dad may remember.

choover@wacotrib.com

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