One basic fact of life is that 2/3rds of the earth is made up of water. A similar, but less widely reported fact, is that 2/3rds of a mother’s time is spent waiting for her children. This they do not teach you in school.
There is of course the basic waiting time of getting shoes on, toys put away, teeth brushed, bodies in bed (and actually sleeping), dinner eaten rather than played with or thrown on the floor. And then there are the endless classes, the soccer practice, the dance class, gymnastics, baseball.
But the sweetest and hardest times of all are waiting for them to walk through those schoolhouse doors.
Annie started preschool yesterday and I thought I had it all together. In fact, I felt a bit bad that I was as together as I was. I am, of course, constantly plagued with that middle child guilt. But then, the minute she let go of my hand and stepped through that green gate of our neighborhood preschool, a school she’d been circling, desperate to enter for the past three years as she watched Danny head off and leave her by my side, she smiled at me, not a care in the world. And I cried as if I might never see her again.
I am, by all accounts, a bit of a crier. I cry when I am happy and when I am sad. And sending my baby girl off to school is a bit of both. I am so happy for her. She so needs school and I need her to find her own way to make friends and not always hide behind my legs when faced with something new. But I feel a bit like Baby Jay, who now wanders the house calling out for his brother and sister with a melancholy “Danny, where are you? Annie, where are you?” And we both run to their sides when they come through that door.
But even harder for me is my big boy, Danny. I know that when I leave Annie she has three teachers and countless parents ready to care for her, to hug her if she is down, to play with her, to take her to the potty (and hopefully make it on time). I know her routine in and out after three years of co-opping. I know she is in an amazing, special place filled with art, nature, surprises and constant love.
Danny in comparison is in a bit of an urban jungle. OK, he is in a nice, academically recognized public school. But, man, there is a lot of concrete. And even though his late bird class is just fourteen kids and I really like his teacher, I don’t think there is going to be time for much hugging let alone time to build robots out of sand pails or splash in puddles. And even though he comes home every day with a new song or poem memorized, a new tale of the mysterious principal (whose office he has vowed to never have to visit), even though his teacher said he is very happy and so fun in class, still I worry and I worry.
I worry because of that moment when I have to leave his side. As a late bird, Danny enters school at recess time now. He has to drop his lunch in a bucket and then enter a group of kids, kids he just met two weeks ago, and find a friend. And there is nothing more excruciating then watching his sweet little self wandering around that playground, searching out a friend, swinging his arms by his side as if he hasn’t a care in the world. Yesterday Dan and I spent five minutes—which felt like five years—watching him circle, looking for a place to land. We finally had to pull away, even before he’d found success, because I could feel that familiar tug on my heart, that impulse to run in there, grab him in my arms and tell him everything is alright.
The problem is that everything is alright for him. It’s just me who’s suffering the moment. For despite how amazing it is to watch your babies grow wings and face this big bad world all on their own, and no matter how sweet that hug is at the end of the day, the toughest part of being a mom just may be all that time flying stand-by.
