A toddler’s treasure 1st day of school

This time last year, I stumbled upon a YouTube video compilation of garbage trucks driving from home to home, snatching up cans and dumping garbage.

I was surprised that the video was nearly two hours long. I was stunned that it had been viewed more than four million times.

I quickly found out why: toddlers love them.

I expected our son to go through a phase of loving dump trucks, excavators and monster trucks. All boys do. But a 10-wheel truck full of forgotten lettuce, dozens of Chick-fil-A bags and thousands of flattened Amazon boxes is apparently mesmerizing.

Our three-year-old’s love for garbage trucks — regular garbage and recycling — hasn’t waned. He identifies parts of the truck and what those parts do. He has nine toy garbage cans and almost as many toy garbage trucks. He has played with them approximately 403 consecutive days. We tear up notebook paper and cardboard to use as recycling. For Christmas last year, Santa Claus brought a toddler-sized ride-on garbage truck to keep the sidewalks of Trussville spotless. He has a handful of garbage truck-themed shirts and one hat. It’s serious business.

Aside from the videos and toys, the real-life thing simply can’t be beaten. I point out garbage trucks on every drive. I have stopped atop Mary Taylor Road so that my son can peek inside the nearby landfill, and on more than one occasion I have driven to the Waste Management landfill in Moody as a field trip.

But the absolute best day of the week is Wednesday: pickup day. Our toddler’s listening skills magically intensify, and he believes he can hear that truck coming down Roper Road, even though we live closer to Argo than Moody. He wears one of his garbage shirts on pickup day. We’ve recorded dozens of iPhone videos of him waving to the garbage men (and them to him), cans lifting into the air and the front loader tossing all that waste into the back of the truck. I set one video to the song “Good Times Roll” by Jimmie Allen and Nelly, and it remains a favorite.

When Trussville switched from Republic Services to Amwaste last year, the move was met with confusion by our toddler. Why was there no longer a blue recycling truck and another blue regular garbage truck? Why did just one white truck come now? Why, at least for the first month or so, did Amwaste come on days other than Wednesday? It’s consistent now, and we see the same driver each week. He honks the horn, waves and gives thumbs-up to our son, and I swear he waits until he reaches our house to lift the front loader into the air to dump a full load.

Back in the spring, our son napped through garbage pickup one Wednesday. The following Wednesday, the truck didn’t come at all for the first time in months. The next morning, he heard it rumbling up the street. We spent much of the morning outside, watching it dump garbage at a dozen homes. When it made it to our house, the driver waved and leaned out the window. He pointed toward my son.

“I missed him yesterday.”

Gary Lloyd is the author of six books and a contributing writer to the Cahaba Sun.

Today is John’s first day of school. His mother, Tanya, is saying goodbye to him. She kisses him. She straightens his collar and fixes his hair. She sends him off to join his kindergarten classmates.

Soon, several five-year-olds are walking into the building, all wearing large backpacks. Tanya waves again.

“I love you!” she shouts from the parking lot.

“Love you, mom!” he yells.

“So much!”

“I know, Mom!”

John’s book bag looks heavier than he is. His mother waves again and again. More I-love-you’s, more blowing kisses.

Tanya says, “Lord, I never knew it would be this hard.” She admits that she doesn’t know exactly how to feel right now. Of course she feels proud, but also a little sick to her stomach.

“For five years,” she says, “I taught him to talk, eat, how to say yes ma’am, everything. It’s always been him and me. But now …” She wipes the corner of her eye. “Now he’s in there, and I’m out here.”

There are lots of parents out here. Each parent watches his or her child join the herd of lost puppies who do not understand the concept of a single-file line. On the sidewalk, kids await their teacher who will take them to a classroom.

Tanya’s friend, Kimberly, is also saying goodbye to her son, Townes.

Kimberly says, “This is a happy day, don’t get me wrong, but it’s bittersweet, you know?”

John and Townes are with their peers. Laughing. Horsing around. Today is the first day of the rest of their lives. Their two mothers couldn’t be prouder if this were a Lee Greenwood hit song.

As it happens, I remember my first day of kindergarten. In fact, I remember it with startling clarity. Which is bizarre because I don’t have a good memory. My memory has gotten worse with age. There are lots of things I can’t recall. For example, my middle name.

But I remember my first day of school.

It was hot. I wore blue shorts. Yellow shirt. We didn’t use backpacks, I don’t know why. Instead, we all carried brown paper grocery sacks. The same kind you get from the Piggly Wiggly.

My mother wore a pink dress with pockets. Her hair was long. She escorted me into an old building that smelled like mildew and disinfectant. I was nervous.

Then my mother waved goodbye, and I watched her from the window of our classroom. She walked home with her hands shoved in her dress pockets. Without me.

Oh, the humanity.

School was frightening. Our teacher was a large woman who played an out-of-tune piano and bounced around singing the song “Mairzy Doats.” Which is an unsettling song with weird, trippy lyrics that sound like something chanted in various insane asylums.

“Mairzy doats and dozy doats,

“And liddle lamzy divey, “A kiddley divey too, “Wouldn’t you?”

It was hell on earth. And it got worse. At naptime, our teacher taught us to fold our hands and recite:

“Now I lay me down to sleep, “I pray the Lord my soul to keep, “If I should die before I wake, “I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

This disturbing little ditty suggests that any child dumb enough to fall asleep might actually stop breathing and die before he or she ever wakes up. I was so terrified by this poem that I did not fully fall asleep until I hit my mid-thirties.

After my first day of class, I darted out of the school building, carrying my paper sack. My mother was waiting. I jumped into her arms and begged her to never leave me again.

We walked home. And that night before bed, I found something on my pillow. It was a gift. A handmade book, crafted from construction paper.

My mother made it. Inside were pictures she had illustrated. The book was entitled, “Mama and Me.”

The book was a pictorial story of a mother and son who had all kinds of adventures. They flew airplanes, climbed mountains, drove race cars, and splashed in oceans.

“I missed you today,” my mother said.

And for as long as I live, I will never forget that.

Over the years, my mother and I grew up a lot. Our family story was not an easy one, but we had lots of experiences. Some were terrifying, others were adventurous.

We never flew airplanes or raced stock cars, but we survived. And that counts for something. Somehow the young woman in the pink dress helped a little boy become a man.

Right now, I am watching young parents do the same thing for their children.

Tanya says with a laugh, “God, I don’t know what I’m gonna do with myself now that he’s gone.”

“Yeah,” says Kimberly. “Same here.”

The group of children follow Teacher. They start walking toward school. The kids wave. Parents wave.

These children have a fun day ahead of them. Maybe they will sing, finger paint, dance or learn morbid little bedtime prayers that will haunt them until they are middle-aged.

The doors swing open. The kids walk inside. Each mother and father fits in final goodbyes.

“I love you, John!” Tanya shouts.

John waves. He disappears inside.

“There goes my little boy,” says Tanya, sniffing her nose. “He’ll probably have so much fun today that he’ll forget all about his mother.”

No, he won’t.

Not for as long as he lives.

Sean Dietrich is a columnist and novelist known for his commentary on life in the American South. He has authored nine books and is the creator of the “Sean of the South” blog and podcast.