High, middle and low school — somehow

This was the first week of high school for Zane, the first week of middle school for Aidan. So which is best: high, middle or low school?

On the first day of kindergarten, nine long years ago, Zane held my hand as we walked into Harvey Milk Civil Rights Academy. I cried more than he did, but still and all, he gave me that sad little wave of his hand as he walked into Mr. Sato’s room.

This year, I took the day off so that I could drive Zane to Thurgood Marshall for the first time. Nothing available on Conkling Street, so I parked down by Silver Avenue. As I turned the car off, Zane said, “Make sure that you stay 10 feet behind me.” I thought he was kidding, but no, he was out like a shot. And by the time I got to the cafeteria, he had joined the basketball team.

Independence is a tough balance when raising a special-needs son. It’s not my job to remind him of how many leagues he’s gotten kicked out of. It’s my job to be enthusiastic about this basketball team: to buy new shoes, to show up at practice, to look like I care about the difference between the screen defense and the zone defense. Because maybe, just maybe, this is the time that it lasts.

I admit I’m just a little jealous of parents who can purchase Clipper cards in August with the reasonable expectation that if they put their child near a bus stop, that child will actually make it to the school. I’m just a little jealous of parents who picked a high school with an eye toward what college that would get their offspring into. And I’m just a little jealous of parents who see their sons play in the finals.

But not us. We play the hand we’re dealt. By Wednesday morning of the first week of school, Zane’s psychiatrist had quit. By that afternoon, so had Aidan’s therapist. So it was a victory, for just this year, that it wasn’t until the fourth day of school that we got a call from the assistant principal. You could tell this guy was trying to put the best spin on it.

“I’m actually not calling to talk about his in-class behavior. It’s his in-cafeteria behavior that ...” But this is Zane’s personal best. I’ve known him to get expelled in fewer days than that.

In the meantime, Papa (Brian) drove Aidan off to his first day of sixth grade. Brian has a lower set of expectations than I do, which is why he’s so much calmer. Take 7:22, for example. For reasons I don’t understand, the boys always start a fight at that point in the evening. This usually occurs in the bedroom, and I learn about it when I hear Aidan yelling. As I race through the dining room, Papa, still in his La-Z-Boy, whispers, “Unless someone’s missing an earlobe, I’ll deal with it after ‘Final Jeopardy.’ ”

But at some point in the first week of school, Aidan was replaced with an alien life-form who was willing to memorize state capitals, write down facts about St. Angela and go to bed at 8 p.m. I’d report this, but I’ll wait until I hear from SETI that some alien family is complaining about a boy who refuses to learn the times table and demands ice cream sundaes for dinner.

For Aidan also, back-to-school means back-to-sports. Despite my protests to the athletic director — “had he already run out of straight fathers?” — it was time for me to return to the soccer pitch.

St. John’s is a small school, and once an adult makes the mistake of admitting that he or she is willing to tell 11-yearolds what to do, that parent gets stuck on every class trip and every athletic team. With no knowledge whatsoever of sports, I have coached track, baseball, basketball, soccer and quidditch.

The boys know that they know more about offsides than I do, and yet, maybe because mine is the deepest voice, when I yell, “Kick the ball!” they actually do.

Back when Aidan was in the fourth grade, I complained about my ignorance to his teacher. “I don’t know how to coach these boys.” She said, “Just add the word ‘yet’ to the end of that sentence: ‘I don’t know to coach these boys yet.’ ”

So that’s our theme: It’s not back-toschool. It’s forward-to-school. We’re going to have a great year, even if we don’t know how. Yet.

It was a victory that it wasn’t until the fourth day of school that we got a call.