It's Sunday, and I've been up since 6:08. This, be it told, is a consequence of kindergarten, and our new household training of "waking with the animals." I'm way better at it than my husband, a far cry from a "morning person," and my son, who is just like his dad. Go figure.
At 9:00 a.m. on a weekend morning, those two are just getting comfortable (often together), preparing to go back to sleep. They stretch, yawn, and pull the sheets over their heads when I take a peek. By then I've had a cup or two of coffee, started laundry, read something, written something, posted something, and likely mopped the kitchen floor. No one trespasses on my morning rituals, no one asks me where anything is or if I can fetch something for them, and so it's my favorite part of the day.
But Kindergarten has been most difficult for me. I cried for three days prior to Sam climbing aboard the bus (his favorite part of this ordeal, by far), and when the bus rounded the corner that first day, I said, "Sam, you don't have to get on - there's still time to home-school." I was kidding (not very much), but he said, "No!"
He likes it so far, minus the rug time. Too much rug time. And only 15 minutes of recess. An embarrassment to five-year-old energy, like the death sentence "have some fruit" when a kid craves candy. His teacher is sweet, so we can't complain. Show me a kindergarten teacher who isn't sweet, and I'll buy her the book, What Color Is My Parachute? Better jump now.
Sam asked why they have rug time so much, and I went into a spiel about the importance of the Miss Krabappels of the world having control. "Your teacher needs your undivided attention. It's like when cowboys corral cattle, or a shepherd corrals his flock..." and then I got depressed for him. I wanted to take it back and say, "Run for your life!" Damn, can't do.
I miss my buddy. I miss our listless days and our busy ones, our talks, our lunches,
playing tennis in the street, dressing like ninjas, going to the skate park before anyone else showed up, and writing down his every funny thought and sentences in a journal, which I've kept since the day I found out I was pregnant.
When Sam arrived from my C-section here in Indiana, back in 2007, I thought, "What am I supposed to do with him...all day? Every day?" POOF: he's gone. Now he's sitting at a classroom table with three other children, eating homemade lunches that I pack each morning, gathering often on a rug and getting 15 minutes of recess.
I did a "drive-in" at his school on the first day, which constituted sitting in the parking lot during that meager 15 minute window, hoping to get a glimpse of him on the monkey bars. I can't admit that to him yet, but by the time he reads this (because that carpet time must be helping with reading) he'll forgive me my trespassing (I hope). Mine was the ONLY car in the lot, and instead I caught a glimpse of myself. "Oh, hell, I'm probably being filmed," thought I, so taking myself in hand, I got a grip and sped home from inside that peanut-free school zone to become the person I always dreamed of being!
If one more person tells me to "discover" myself during this time, I will scream. I know who I am. I know exactly who I am. That has never been a problem. The only problem is the void I feel without that little guy around.
After almost 6 years of being with Sam each day, now reflecting on my life experiences (thousands), goals (eh, a few), achievements (strokes of luck) and passions (too many to count), I never dreamed that being Sam's mom was my dream. Not my only dream--of course not--but the best dream by far.
Who knew?
