The first day, and in fact the first week, of school has come and gone, and everyone in our little family is worn out. I have taken a three hour nap two days in a row now, and as soon as I tap out the last word of this post, am going to shove aside the wrinkled laundry and load my exhausted lump of flesh into that fluffy piece of heaven called my bed and surrender to sweet slumber.
Having been an elementary teacher in my life before having my own "classroom of two," the first day of school is a magical day for me. It is palpably electrified, the anxious anticipation of laughter, tears, the smell of new crayons and playground sweat hovering in the room after the kids clear out, the odd aromatic combination of cafeteria food and rubber balls from P.E. wafting through the hallways always give me a sense of regeneration, a willingness to tackle endeavors anew, and commit to being a productive, positive individual.
I have seen tearful parents lingering in hallways and stalking their children through fogged up windows, reluctant to leave the post that only they held for the last five or so years, knowing that this is the first step their baby bird takes toward developing wings of their own and soaring away from the nest. In my mind, I was always thinking, "This is only elementary school -- HELLO!! We're not talking college yet! Your ill-behaved child will be back in a few hours, and you'll be looking forward to the next day of school! Grow up, will ya'?!?"
And then I became a parent.
Lil' G's first day of school was everything that I prayed for her that it would be. We packed her lunch, biked to school, and got settled in at her little desk. I got a little misty-eyed that she was so excited to be there and confident that this was, in fact, going to be a great experience, that she shooed me off with a, "Bye, Mom! Have a great day!" Bud was with me, and he started getting a little dramatic, so we made a quick exit before it got too hard to make it at all. I'm also trying not to be "that parent," the one who is a little too involved just because he/she used to be a teacher, etc. The bike ride home quickly got my mind off of the emotionality of the day, and the rest of the week went by quickly as well.
But today was different. Today was Day #5, and after having built up her confidence, Grace decided, when asked if she wanted Bud and me to walk her in the building and to her classroom or if she wanted to go by herself, she chose to go it alone. What?!? You're supposed to ask me to go with you!! You're supposed to love me and only me so much that you don't want to leave my side; at least, not yet. *sniff, sniff* (Hanging head, feeling so dejected and replaced...)
I resovled to be supportive of whatever decision she made, so when we walked into the door of the building, we hugged and kissed, said our goodbyes, and just stood there for a moment. It was a little surreal, with parents, children, teachers swirling around us like water in eddies around the rocks in a stream. Then she took that first step and was off on her journey.
She would walk five or six steps, pause, and turn around, searching the sea of faces for the one she calls, "Mommy." We would lock eyes, I would smile as genuinely as one can through hot tears, raise my hand as high as I could and wave, and she would turn around to continue down the long, straight hallway. Eventually, she disappeared into a crowd of precious little heads tottering off to classrooms, and she was gone.
I stood there, not knowing what to do. Besides keep Bud out of other people's way, as per usual. After what seemed like an eternity, I did what any mother would do:
I went down the hall to check on her.
I told Bud we were going to sneak up and just make sure Lil' G got to her classroom OK. I didn't want her to think I didn't trust her or cause her grief by showing up. I was going to stand back at a distance, make visual contact with the top of her pony-tailed head, and head to the bike rack for my morning's ride. But she was nowhere to be seen.
A little concerned, I made eye contact with her teacher, a friend of mine. We mouthed to each other over the tops of kids' heads:
Me: Did Lil' G make it down the hallway yet? She asked to come by herself. I just wanted to make sure she got here OK.
Teacher: Yes, she's inside the classroom putting her backpack away. She came in a little upset.
Just as we finished our mime conversation, Lil' G emerged from the room, with the same look on her face that I'm sure Atlas had on as he held the weight of the world on his shoulders. When I called out her name, she immediately burst into tears and nuzzled up to me, which of course made me sad. Bud, being surrounded by the women he loves, was overcome with empathy and burst into tears as well. We were such a pathetic, sweet sight.
In episodes like these, I try to ask Lil' G open-ended questions that will get her talking about how she's feeling. Many times, she's overcome not just by the details of a situation, but also feels the hole left in her heart by the absence of her daddy. These can be times where I feel like her life is so unfair. She cannot just be a child, going through the motions of growing up. Grief is not an imaginary playmate in our family. Grief is real, grief is always there, and grief announces its presence at the most inopportune of times. It is like a dragon that I have sworn to do battle with, to not let it overcome my family and I to the point where we are rendered unable to function, but I feel like that is my job as their mother. Grief can tangle with me, but it had better not touch my children. Then, with the few functioning, non-dramatic brain cells I posess, I realize that just can't be, and I have to watch their little hearts break all over again.
But grief was apparently taking a four-day holiday today.
When asked why she was so sad, she did not say that she missed her daddy, but that she missed me. She missed me. I know that my daughter loves me even when I am mean and unlovable. I know that she misses me when we are apart, even when grandparents are spoiling her rotten. I hear about her saying these things, but this is one of the only times she has clung to me, tears streaming down her face, and let down her guard to tell me she missed me, and I was so humbled.
I wanted to sit down right there in the middle of the floor in the Kindergarten wing of the school and hold her, but there was really no time. I consoled her to the point where she was able to get back with her group, Bud and I left the school, and the rest of the day was history from that point on. But there are so many things I wished I could download from my heart directly into hers.
I wanted to tell her how beautiful and strong she is. She is both tenacious and tender, driven yet deliberate. She is competetive and compassionate. I wanted to warn her as well. I wanted to tell her that she is so gifted, in many ways that will set her far apart from others. Anointed, really, with strength, grace, and vision. Her life's struggle will likely be how to balance Tom's gentleness and good humor with my fire and passion and determination. I wanted to tell her what so many others have tried to pound into my head, and that is that it's OK to be emotional and vulnerable. Part of what makes her who she is, and someone I admire, is that tender, gentle side of her. I am so afraid that life with a strong personality, driven, eccentric mom will only sharpen her tougher side, and her tenderness will be completely overshadowed by her innate desire to be a strong woman like her mother. (I am not necessarily trying to identify my own strength here, but rather point out that my own stubbornness and strong will, while serving me well in some ways, has been a real handicap in other ways.)
I read on a paper sent home by the teacher that "research shows" that children need eight hugs a day to maintain a strong emotional level and twelve hugs a day in order to grow. Good grief! Add that to all the other things I guilt trip myself about not taking enough time to do with the kids. But isn't that the least I can do?? I do, after all, want my children to grow, even if it means taking baby steps away from me and toward lives of their own.
I was relieved that Lil' G felt the same way I did about the morning's experiment: not just yet. We're getting there, but we don't want to rush through this stage of our lives. There are plenty of years ahead of us, God willing, to take those steps together. One tearful hug at a time.
Having been an elementary teacher in my life before having my own "classroom of two," the first day of school is a magical day for me. It is palpably electrified, the anxious anticipation of laughter, tears, the smell of new crayons and playground sweat hovering in the room after the kids clear out, the odd aromatic combination of cafeteria food and rubber balls from P.E. wafting through the hallways always give me a sense of regeneration, a willingness to tackle endeavors anew, and commit to being a productive, positive individual.
I have seen tearful parents lingering in hallways and stalking their children through fogged up windows, reluctant to leave the post that only they held for the last five or so years, knowing that this is the first step their baby bird takes toward developing wings of their own and soaring away from the nest. In my mind, I was always thinking, "This is only elementary school -- HELLO!! We're not talking college yet! Your ill-behaved child will be back in a few hours, and you'll be looking forward to the next day of school! Grow up, will ya'?!?"
And then I became a parent.
Lil' G's first day of school was everything that I prayed for her that it would be. We packed her lunch, biked to school, and got settled in at her little desk. I got a little misty-eyed that she was so excited to be there and confident that this was, in fact, going to be a great experience, that she shooed me off with a, "Bye, Mom! Have a great day!" Bud was with me, and he started getting a little dramatic, so we made a quick exit before it got too hard to make it at all. I'm also trying not to be "that parent," the one who is a little too involved just because he/she used to be a teacher, etc. The bike ride home quickly got my mind off of the emotionality of the day, and the rest of the week went by quickly as well.
But today was different. Today was Day #5, and after having built up her confidence, Grace decided, when asked if she wanted Bud and me to walk her in the building and to her classroom or if she wanted to go by herself, she chose to go it alone. What?!? You're supposed to ask me to go with you!! You're supposed to love me and only me so much that you don't want to leave my side; at least, not yet. *sniff, sniff* (Hanging head, feeling so dejected and replaced...)
I resovled to be supportive of whatever decision she made, so when we walked into the door of the building, we hugged and kissed, said our goodbyes, and just stood there for a moment. It was a little surreal, with parents, children, teachers swirling around us like water in eddies around the rocks in a stream. Then she took that first step and was off on her journey.
She would walk five or six steps, pause, and turn around, searching the sea of faces for the one she calls, "Mommy." We would lock eyes, I would smile as genuinely as one can through hot tears, raise my hand as high as I could and wave, and she would turn around to continue down the long, straight hallway. Eventually, she disappeared into a crowd of precious little heads tottering off to classrooms, and she was gone.
I stood there, not knowing what to do. Besides keep Bud out of other people's way, as per usual. After what seemed like an eternity, I did what any mother would do:
I went down the hall to check on her.
I told Bud we were going to sneak up and just make sure Lil' G got to her classroom OK. I didn't want her to think I didn't trust her or cause her grief by showing up. I was going to stand back at a distance, make visual contact with the top of her pony-tailed head, and head to the bike rack for my morning's ride. But she was nowhere to be seen.
A little concerned, I made eye contact with her teacher, a friend of mine. We mouthed to each other over the tops of kids' heads:
Me: Did Lil' G make it down the hallway yet? She asked to come by herself. I just wanted to make sure she got here OK.
Teacher: Yes, she's inside the classroom putting her backpack away. She came in a little upset.
Just as we finished our mime conversation, Lil' G emerged from the room, with the same look on her face that I'm sure Atlas had on as he held the weight of the world on his shoulders. When I called out her name, she immediately burst into tears and nuzzled up to me, which of course made me sad. Bud, being surrounded by the women he loves, was overcome with empathy and burst into tears as well. We were such a pathetic, sweet sight.
In episodes like these, I try to ask Lil' G open-ended questions that will get her talking about how she's feeling. Many times, she's overcome not just by the details of a situation, but also feels the hole left in her heart by the absence of her daddy. These can be times where I feel like her life is so unfair. She cannot just be a child, going through the motions of growing up. Grief is not an imaginary playmate in our family. Grief is real, grief is always there, and grief announces its presence at the most inopportune of times. It is like a dragon that I have sworn to do battle with, to not let it overcome my family and I to the point where we are rendered unable to function, but I feel like that is my job as their mother. Grief can tangle with me, but it had better not touch my children. Then, with the few functioning, non-dramatic brain cells I posess, I realize that just can't be, and I have to watch their little hearts break all over again.
But grief was apparently taking a four-day holiday today.
When asked why she was so sad, she did not say that she missed her daddy, but that she missed me. She missed me. I know that my daughter loves me even when I am mean and unlovable. I know that she misses me when we are apart, even when grandparents are spoiling her rotten. I hear about her saying these things, but this is one of the only times she has clung to me, tears streaming down her face, and let down her guard to tell me she missed me, and I was so humbled.
I wanted to sit down right there in the middle of the floor in the Kindergarten wing of the school and hold her, but there was really no time. I consoled her to the point where she was able to get back with her group, Bud and I left the school, and the rest of the day was history from that point on. But there are so many things I wished I could download from my heart directly into hers.
I wanted to tell her how beautiful and strong she is. She is both tenacious and tender, driven yet deliberate. She is competetive and compassionate. I wanted to warn her as well. I wanted to tell her that she is so gifted, in many ways that will set her far apart from others. Anointed, really, with strength, grace, and vision. Her life's struggle will likely be how to balance Tom's gentleness and good humor with my fire and passion and determination. I wanted to tell her what so many others have tried to pound into my head, and that is that it's OK to be emotional and vulnerable. Part of what makes her who she is, and someone I admire, is that tender, gentle side of her. I am so afraid that life with a strong personality, driven, eccentric mom will only sharpen her tougher side, and her tenderness will be completely overshadowed by her innate desire to be a strong woman like her mother. (I am not necessarily trying to identify my own strength here, but rather point out that my own stubbornness and strong will, while serving me well in some ways, has been a real handicap in other ways.)
I read on a paper sent home by the teacher that "research shows" that children need eight hugs a day to maintain a strong emotional level and twelve hugs a day in order to grow. Good grief! Add that to all the other things I guilt trip myself about not taking enough time to do with the kids. But isn't that the least I can do?? I do, after all, want my children to grow, even if it means taking baby steps away from me and toward lives of their own.
I was relieved that Lil' G felt the same way I did about the morning's experiment: not just yet. We're getting there, but we don't want to rush through this stage of our lives. There are plenty of years ahead of us, God willing, to take those steps together. One tearful hug at a time.
"And may the Lord keep watch between you and me when we are away from each other." -- Genesis 31:49
6 comments:
"I wanted to tell her how beautiful and strong she is. She is both tenacious and tender, driven yet deliberate. She is competetive and compassionate. I wanted to warn her as well. I wanted to tell her that she is so gifted, in many ways that will set her far apart from others. Anointed, really, with strength, grace, and vision."
Yes, you are, too. GGG. Sending love and 12 hugs to a weary momma.
wow. This was a great post. I love the same paragraph that Gretchen quoted.
L'il G is one of the most beautiful children I know. And you are a great mom.
She missed YOU! Yay Mom!! Well handled too. Tra la la la!
*sigh*
fabulous, beautiful, wonderful post.
good job, amiga.
also, who the heck counts the hugs they give their kids? how about you just hug your kids everytime you mean it? and then sometimes if you don't?
that should do the trick, right?
or are my kids going to be in therapy about that one feb 23rd, 2007 where they only got 2 hugs?
I think your kids are going to do just fine, my friend- your strengths and weaknesses are the exact formula God designed to raise these phenomenal people the way He created them to go- and your sensitivities to their needs are so tuned in, it blesses my socks off.
What an absolutely beautiful post. So much of it I can relate to, but so much of it I have no clue.
I do think she's awfully blessed to have you as her mother.
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