The First Day is the Hardest, Right???

I got back in the car and shut the door just before the first few pitiful squeaks escaped from my mouth. You know, the kind that attempt to prevent but only precede uncontrollable sobbing? I expected to be teary eyed, sad and proud at the same time. Maybe have a little lip quiver going. But I wasn't exactly prepared for the wash of sheer emotion on my little boy's first day of kindergarten. The tears that started last Friday and have yet to stop. Over the weekend I thought "Oh, good. I'll get it out now and will be just fine for Monday morning drop-off."

Nope. Didn't work like that. Outwardly, I'm not a hyper-emotional being with raw, exposed edges and a super sensitive tear faucet. But this was unlike anything I have ever experienced. And I wouldn't change any of it.

I took the day off work, just to be there to walk him into the cafeteria to meet his class. And to walk slowly back to the car. To enjoy the hours of the day as they ticked by. To look at the clock and check his schedule and know what he was doing each and every minute.

Those minutes seemed to creep. At one point I thought he must be getting ready for lunch, only to look at the clock and see that it wasn't even out of the neighborhood of 9:00 a.m. How could this big day be going so slowly?

I resisted the urge to drive past the school multiple times throughout the day. I'm not really "that" mom...except that I sort of am....at least on the inside. I want so much to shepherd him through his day, just to be there and know that he's okay and he's not nervous like his mama is. I don't want to do everything for him....I really don't. I just can't stand the thought of him being lost or confused or nervous or afraid to ask questions. Afraid to use the restroom by himself because the door is difficult to open and he might get stuck.

After school on the first day, he asked me if I had cried. (Once I cry, my face does not go back to normal for at least 12 hours....I bring literal meaning to the term "ugly cry"....so it's not surprising that he asked.) I told him I did and asked him if he did, too. He said "No, but my heart was beating like I missed you." The way he held his little hand against his chest and pounded it with thumping demonstration made the still lingering lump in my throat ache all over again. I must have sobbed in the bathroom five times that night.

Yesterday, I walked him to meet his class in the cafeteria and again began my slow but deliberate trudge back to the car. I prayed for his day, for his safekeeping, for his little heart to be just fine this day. I prayed for good friends for him and for no one to mock him because he wears glasses and is colorblind. "Lord, help me..." The words "to let him grow up" stuck in my throat. I couldn't yet speak them. So I just nodded my head and He knew what I meant.

Today I'm wearing a Cars band-aid across my forearm that my little man stuck there to protect me from the flu. He takes care of his mama. And I will pull myself together and take care of him. In front of him I remain enthusiastic, celebrating each red star he earns on his take-home folder. While he sleeps I whisper prayers of love and protection over him, pleading for extra help as we make this childhood transition together.

Nothing could have prepared me for this rush of emotions this week. I know I'm hormonal, but still. He's my baby. My miracle. And we will get through this first week of kindergarten. I will find the right schedule that allows each of us to bathe, eat, enjoy clean clothes and sheets, do homework, fill out forms, check calendars, get to school, get to work, get back home and get into bed at a semi-decent hour. But this week is about survival. And if he can do it, I know I can. The band-aid helps.