She said – First day of kindergarten

I know, I haven't been writing. Actually that's not true at all. I've been writing. Like crazy. I haven't been POSTING is more what I want to say. I miss writing my Dear Connor and Tristan, but I think I was burned out for a while. Now that Christmas is over I a little more time. I've been trying to get some things off of my plate, things that I've started but are ready to pass on, (like my SPD group), one of the newsletters that I do on a volunteer basis and anything else that I don't really NEED to do, but takes up my time anyway. I've been writing but not posting because last semester I was taking a creative writing class which is where all of my writing energy went. I have a ton of stuff from the class that I've been meaning to post so I guess I'll get to it. Prepare for an onslaught of completely random things I have written. Here's the first.

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It’s 6:45am. I am standing in a dark room, watching my five year old son sleep. He stirs slightly as if aware of my presence. I lift the camera and hope for the best. It’s not easy shooting in darkness. The red-eye reduction will be the only light I am able to focus with. I press the trigger and the flash illuminates the room like an impending storm. Connor groans and rolls over shielding his eyes from the light. I shoot again. He opens one eye says, “NO” and pulls the blankets over his face to hide himself from the Mother that’s surely come to wake him.

“Good morning, sweet baby,” I croon. “Let’s get up. It’s the first day of Kindergarten”
He says again, “No”. And tries to ignore me. I take another picture.
 I coax him out of bed with the promise of an exciting day at school. He is leery. It takes forever to brush teeth. I tame the rooster hair that curls in a salute to the sky while he is sleeping. I make more promises about how much he is going to love Kindergarten and how fun it is going to be. I try to sound light and happy but I am afraid for him. I hope he can’t see it. Please don’t let him see it.

We try on his new uniform and I try to be positive when he complains and says he doesn’t understand why he can’t wear sweatpants and a t-shirt. I explain that all of the other children will be wearing the same and that it’s the rules. He complains again. I pretend to be absorbed in the tucking in of his shirt and do not answer.

We wake up the brother. The element that adds chaos to the morning. Connor is so distracted that he doesn’t even pick a fight with him. He doesn’t argue about who goes down the stairs first. His head is so full of anxiety and expectation that he doesn’t care.

His appetite is scant. He likes the cereal that he picked out at the store yesterday; it’s his favorite, but can’t eat because his tummy is a jumble of nerves. I empathize. He tells me he feels sick and I explain to him that it’s ok to have butterflies in his tummy. He doesn’t have to eat if he doesn’t want to. It’s going to be ok. He’s going to love it. Mama will take him and pick him up. Mama loves him. Mama is proud.

He wanders around the kitchen in circles, pacing. Waiting. We drive.

I explain to him how the drop off works on the way. He will get out of his seat belt when we go to the parking lot. He will have to give me a kiss. He will get out of the car and a teacher will take him to another teacher who will take him to his class. I remind him that he has lunch. He has snack. He is amazing. Mama is proud.

We pull up to the drop point and I stop the car. I turn to look at him and he’s staring out of the van door at the person that’s coming to take him away from his family. She opens the door and Connor hops out forgetting the kiss rule, but remembering as soon as his feet touch the ground he turns to get back in the car but the teacher pulls him away. He yells, “I LOVE YOU!” and blows me about ten kisses in a row. I smile, tell him I love him too and watch as he walks away staring wide eyed at the teacher that’s gushing about how cool his Scooby Doo lunch box is. He is not fooled. He looks back at the van, leaving him alone in this strange new place.

He looks so small. His backpack is almost as big as he is. He looks our way as we slowly pull away from the drop zone. As he turns to walk into the building a tear rolls down my cheek. There will be no inconsolable sobbing from me. I’m not a mother that will sit in the parking lot and cry for an hour lamenting the loss of my child. I can feel the knot in my stomach begin to untangle and but I know I still won’t be able to relax until I pick him up at the end of the day. Mama loves him. Mama is proud.