As the impending doom of my first baby’s bus ride inevitably nears, I ask myself when not if….I know I’m going to cry. Shoot, I’m crying right now through typing tears. I cry at inspirational speeches and pretty much any musical montage. I have surrendered myself to waterproof eye liner and the fact that it will just be so.
The question lies within the beautiful little kindergartener to be. His soul is old and delicate. He walks the world sensitive like his momma (well both of his parents actually) and I plainly see that bright big heart on his sleeve. When he turned 4 he came to lie in bed with us. I tortured myself by playing Taylor Swift’s “Never Grow Up” and nuzzled his neck through my sobs. I certainly wasn’t expecting him to match my tears and declare that he now didn’t want to grow up either. Oopsie, parent fail. I spent the next half hour repairing that damage and thankfully the crisis was diverted when he remembered PRESENTS.
Here’s the thing. I’m pretty sure I haven’t screwed him up too bad yet ; besides that minor fawpaw. I encourage creative play and try my best to ignore messes.( A real tough one for my type A-ness.) I give him freedom and space and snuggles. I say I’m sorry when I screw up and speak in plain language about things that are serious. I love him fiercely and I only cried on the inside when I dropped him off at his grandparents the other day as he proudly announced “don’t get unbuckled, I can go in by myself.”
So, to cry in front of his cherubic little face or to save the ugly sobs for when he’s safely in his seat?
One part of me says let my freak flag fly. Be me. Us sensitive souls must stand in solidarity. He should know that crying is allowed, not shameful and an expected response to such a momentous occasion. He should also know that the fierce love I feel for him won’t flee just because his little birdie wings are flying from the nest. He has spent a lot of times simmering on the back burner in this short little life of his. He should know that on this day, thoughts of him are swirling around all the lobes of my cerebellum and thoughts of his baby days swell deep within my soul…..
BUT, will my streams of sadness wreak havok on his tender psyche? One cannot know for sure? I am torn between “my mom was a tough old bird” or “all she ever did was cry.” I want me to be me because I want him to be him …but I don’t want him to associate school with devastation either. Being a mom is hard. Being a sappy one is harder. Watching them grow is the hardest. I am not sure how it wall all go down but I am sure of my dad’s advice on moderation.
So, I’m going to(most importantly) simply show up, and try for just a trickle.
Wish me luck.
Finding The Joy 