So when I was a kid, my dad had a ghastly tradition.

Every year on the very first day of school, like clockwork, he would barge into my room

and do something that was equally annoying and endearing. And ever since I had kids, I adopted this

wretched ritual. And of course, there is a little more unnerving than becoming your own father.

Welcome to the commune podcast. My name is Jeff Krasnow. As many of you know, I have three daughters,

and slowly, painfully, they are all flying the coop. So this episode is all about that transition.

It's about belonging and fitting in and letting go.

So I'm sitting here in my room at the Graduate,

a collegiate themed hotel in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.

There's an indoor basketball court in the lobby

and tar heel banners hanging from the rafters.

Skyler and I are here depositing our middle daughter,

Andean, better known as Lolly,

at UNC. After a week of agonizing goodbyes, Lolly is tiptoeing into nervous hellos. And I am warming my

vocal cords for what may be the last rendition of that ghastly ritual that I inherited

from my father. Now, I've been reprising this routine for decades on the kid's most miserable

day of the year, the first day of school. Their bodies are still sun-kissed. Their beds are still sandy. They're accustomed to sleeping

until lunchtime. But at 6.30 a.m. sharp, I bust into each of their rooms, and with uncommon

sincerity, I launch into a rousing version of this 1907 American classic.

I'll try to do a refrained version of it here.

School days, school days, dear old golden rule days, reading and writing and and rhythmic talk to the tune of the hickry stick

you were my queen in calico i was your barefoot bashful bow you rode on my slate. I love you so when we were a couple of kids.

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