Change has always been difficult for me. Even when that change is something as amazing as the first day of school.
I fed my blossoming scholars blueberry pancakes and bacon. They sat in their fuzzy robes at the table, more excited than nervous. I carefully ironed their clothes, pressing wrinkles from the fabric with a hiss of steam. I braided Elizabeth's hair and styled Joseph's. I scrubbed the syrup from their cheeks until they were rosy.
They stood on the porch, their bodies leaning towards the car and the adventures awaiting them. I pulled back as long as I could. One more picture. One more image to freeze the moment.
We dropped off Joseph first. Third grade is different than second grade. The teacher raises her eyebrows when the whole family troops into the classroom with cameras. I ignored her as I thanked a benevolent universe for giving me a son who understands his mom still needs those hugs and kisses. I waved goodbye as he found his desk in a classroom of children I've watched grow since Kindergarten and who suddenly seem so...grown up.
We had an hour before Elizabeth's drop off. We went home, us two girls, and painted her nails. I held her in my lap and breathed in the scent of baby shampoo, missing the soft milk smell of my baby. We went to her classroom where my girl, so confident and sure, walked into the classroom with a smile on her face.
There was a moment, a few minutes, when she realized I wasn't staying and the teacher she'd hoped to get wasn't the one she had. She crawled into my lap and curled her body into mine, squeezing my neck with her sturdy arms.
"Can little kids hug and kiss their mommies a lot in the classroom before it's time for them to go?""Lots and lots, baby. Lots and lots."
With a smile on my face, I hugged her tight and said, "You are going to be amazing!" She looked at me, smiled, and wiggled into her seat. I left, waving from the door. She waved back and turned her attention to her teacher.
I made it to the parking lot before I started crying.
My babies are growing up and I'm not ready.
5 comments:
I get this, Mandy. Every shard of it :-)
I'll be 46 in October and I am happy to report, my forties have been the best years yet.
I could not have known that when I was 39.
And I wouldn't have believed it if you'd told me.
You're so right, though; about that paradox of feeling as if everything is speeding up or going in reverse at the same time.
But your introspection will serve you well. Soak it up. Think it through. Live intentionally. There is so much wonderful in your world.
I'm approaching 40, myself . . . and I get this (though I'm willing to put good money on the fact that you'd rock a short skirt, now, better than I ever have).
One thing that I've taken to, recently, is "most go forward." It doesn't matter if things were better or worse an hour ago. Or a year ago. Or 10 years ago. All that matters is, right now, that I'm trying my best to make sure that tomorrow is better. And, well, you seem to have that down cold.
(I've ALWAYS been fascinated by sea glass)
There's something about the stuff...holding bits and pieces of other people's lives...that fascinates me too.
I'm working on a "there's only one direction to move and it's forward" sort of theory myself. It's a little more difficult than I'd like to admit sometimes, but...onward!
(If I seem to have it down cold, I'm doing a fabulous job of faking it until I make it!!)
My thirties, so far, have been rocky. There's a tiny, itty bitty part of me that sees the silver lining (ha!) of forty as being a time to perhaps find some solid ground under my feet.
Oh, my dear Mandy. Your children are beautiful and amazing. They'll do incredible things. XO
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