"Alex, no. Cheerios. You're going to school this morning and you need Cheerios."

"I'll cry," he says. "I'll cry." This is his newest sentence, whenever he doesn't want to do something. I'm thinking of using it at my job.

"C'mon, Alex, you're going to school today."

Alex -- actually, Jill -- has survived a week and a half of school vacation. She and our babysitter did their best: Chinatown, playground runs, The Cloisters. He spent time watching the video "There Goes a Police Car," especially after I bought him a toy police helicopter. On Monday, July 5th, the day before summer school began, we all went to Target. Alex was probably delighted to get back to school.

There have been a lot of school days under the bridge since three years ago, when he cried for days over having to go to pre-school; I used to deposit him in his classroom and sneak out, feeling like crap, when he wasn't looking. When I came to fetch him on September 11th, he was probably the happiest person in New York City that morning. In the months since, school has become magic for Alex. Last September, he cried after we visited his soon-to-be school and then had to come home again for a few days. This summer school will be a romp.

We have to guess just when, on the morning of July 6th, to go down for the new bus --- Alex is 20th on the pick-up list, and the bus starts pick-ups at 7 a.m. Alex is headed to a different school for the summer. This one is a nearer cab ride for us, and Alex was there just a few months ago for a special-needs fair. He should recognize it.

As I also expect, his bus never shows on this first morning. I hail a cab for the ride (10 minutes and just six bucks!) to his school. We get out, and he tugs me toward the building. A school police officer greets us at the door with a deep "Good morning!" Good morning, I say. I tell him we missed the bus and this is Alex's first day here.

The cop runs his eyes down Alex, and asks if he's special-needs. "Try that office around the corner," the cop says.

I do, and see a few people - a counselor, the principal - whom I know. This feels like old hat. I feel at-home and experienced, like a school parent, so puffed-up that I don't notice how Alex seems to be refusing to let go of my hand.

We get him squared away paperwork-wise and head for the cafeteria, where his class is gathering. It's noisy in here, like the indoor pool that used to drive Alex batty during swimming lessons. We find his teacher and some aides, and even a kid he knows from his classroom during the regular school year. "Alex, school!" I say, and for the first time I look down and see his eyes are moist. "I'll cry," he says.

He won't let go of my hands. When I try to slip off his backpack, he struggles to keep it on. He wipes his eyes on his sleeves. As long as I've known him, Alex has either cried or not cried. He's never turned misty.

"Alex, you know people here," I inform him. One of the therapists he had during the regular year takes him by the hand and says, "Alex, do you want to see Elmo?"

"I guess he's just upset to be here," I tell the new teacher, a kind-looking lady who speaks softly to Alex. "Is there anything special Alex likes to do?" she asks me, with the same kindness she uses to speak to Alex. I'm so thrown by his reaction this morning that, for a minute, I can't come up with anything. Goofball dad on the first morning of school. "Ah, well, he likes the playground," I say.

Well this school certainly has one of those, and the new teacher guides Alex to the window to peek outside at the jungle gym. I turn to the aide. "Should I sneak out while he's distracted?" I ask. The aide nods once, with decision. On the way out, I run into the therapist again. "He'll be okay," she says. "I just sent an Elmo in. He'll be okay."

I call our babysitter in the afternoon, to see what time he got home, and if he seemed happy. "Yes, he seemed happy," she says. "He turned to wave good bye to one of his friends." We'll see if Alex waves hello tomorrow when he gets on the school bus. Assuming the bus comes, and assuming he gets on it.