One of those promised firsts, the first day of school, took place in August of 1994. My oldest daughter was starting the first grade. She had attended kindergarten with her preschool Montessori class, so this would be her first day of first grade in a new school. Needless to say, I was a little.......scared, nervous, anxious, excited, proud.......fill in the blank. Many years ago, after I returned from taking her to the bus stop, my heart was so full that I had to write about the experience.
This is what I wrote:
The alarm rang at 4:45 a.m., a bit too early for me and 99% of the world. I stumbled to the shower, determined to make the best of this day, August 22, 1994, your first day of first grade. As I dress, my mind is still too asleep to absorb all that is going to happen the next few hours.
I walk into your room and gaze at you sleeping for a moment. Can it be that you are ready for school? Panic consumes me - have I prepared you? Do you know your phone number? Can they find me if you are sick? But more important, what about you and me? Have we laughed enough, cried enough? Have I loved you enough to let you go a little, just a little? Do you know how important you are to me? Do you know how much I love you, how hard I fought for you, how much......? I lean down and gently kiss your forehead, my baby for the last minute. You stretch and I am transported back in time seeing you as an infant, stretching in a cuddly sleeper, a sturdy toddler, stretching to wake up from a nap you were sure you didn't need, a sweet four year old, a thousand stretches, a thousand sleepy smiles.
"It's time to get up now." We smile at each other, our unspoken bond traveling between our eyes. You quietly gather your clothes and bring them into the den. You dress and I prepare breakfast. You eat and I make your lunch. You're not hungry and I worry. I pack an extra banana for a snack on the bus. I fix your hair, you brush your teeth. As I sit down to strap on your watch, I notice the time. It's going too quickly! We walk outside in a cover of darkness. I still want to take your picture, even though it probably won't turn out.
We join hands and take off for the bus stop. The stars are still twinkling in the sky and a big white moon hangs above us. You are so excited about today. You practice saying your teacher's name, a difficult task with two missing teeth. We talk about where to meet this afternoon and what you think you will do this first day. We look for the brightest star, because you are sure that is where God is right now. I silently pray for Him to abandon that star and stick with you today.
All too soon we are at the bus stop. The sky is just beginning to pinken in the east. The buses come and go, picking up sleepy children, but not yours yet. Suddenly I'm out of time - there's so much to say but the lump in my throat is growing too big. Will you cry if I do? Will you be embarrassed? Will I be embarrassed? Will I care? I ask if you are ready, you grin and nod, "I am", you say confidently.
A bus appears around the corner and slows, lights flashing. "I think this is it" you tell me and start moving toward it. "Wait" I cry out, "I need to take your picture!" Grudgingly you turn and smile for me and before I've recovered you're climbing the steps and moving away. A small voice inside me cries "I didn't get to hug her, I had so many things to tell her". But I smile and step back, waving and mentally sending you all that's still within me. I watch you take your seat and search for your seat belt. The driver closes the door and releases the brake. As she starts to drive off, I want to run after the bus screaming, "She's too little, she's still a baby. She can't go yet, it's too early, it's too far, she's not ready!"
Oh but she is, my heart says. My baby has disappeared long ago and been replaced by a beautiful child, strong, smart and confident. To hold you back now when you are so ready to fly would be a sin. If I clipped your wings today, I would cripple you for tomorrow - and that I cannot do. I stand alone in the dawn, the stars now fading, with tears running down my cheeks. The bus begins to turn the corner, and finally I can no longer hold back what I wanted to say. "I love you" I whisper to the tail lights retreating from sight.
Since that early morning, I've sent two other children off for their first day of school and even myself in 1999 when I returned to college. It never gets any easier to let them grow up just a little, but it is so necessary.
