by Meredith Devereaux

Created on: August 09, 2009

As I write this, I'm a mere eleven days out from my baby boy's first day of kindergarten. I have survived sending his two older siblings to kindergarten years ago, and I am still a relatively well-composed, rational woman. I know, however, that despite all evidence to the contrary, when my youngest walks through that classroom door and I turn the corner on my way back to the parking lot, I'll be suppressing that hiccupy, weepy feeling as long as I can. Forget any "tea and tissues" reception the P.T.A. might hold for moms like me in the school courtyard. I reserve my full out, wailing, "ugly cry" for the privacy of my minivan on the long road to Starbucks, a steaming latte, and a little semblance of sanity.

What is it about that very first day that turns me into a crying cliche? Of course, it is a milestone moment. Something about sending a tiny five-year old to the big school screams empty nest, no matter how many baby chicks you still have back at home. I wept equally wildly for the other two kiddos, knowing full well that they would not only survive the morning without me, but walk out at pick-up time with a new swagger of confidence in their tiny Stride Rite steps. I personally know every teacher's face and reputation in our elementary school, and all of the kindergarten staff are nurturing, kind, and just what you'd hope for in your first real teacher. So why does opening that classroom door and leading my youngest son inside feel like I'm leaving him at the side of the road instead of on the threshold of discovery?

It feels sad because if you as a mother have done your job right, it's supposed to feel that way.

I love my son enough to miss him when he's gone. I love him enough to wonder how he's going to navigate getting his lunch on those unwieldy cafeteria trays. I love him enough to cross my fingers that he will find a friend on a playground full of kids but not one familiar face. I love him enough to pray he will follow his teacher's instructions and not run in the halls or that he will keep quiet during lesson time. I know in my mind he will be fine, and accomplish all those little tasks with the same ease as he did in preschool. It may take a few days or weeks to get into the swing of things, but that's what the teachers expect. My son is not the first child to start kindergarten in history. It sure feels that way, but it's not that way. He's one child in a group of twenty or so other kids in his class to start a new chapter on that very first day.

But in my heart, this sentimental and soft mother's heart, it's the first time in HIS history that he's experienced all those things. While I sip lukewarm coffee and pace around my kitchen in circles, I can only hope and pray that he's following through on the things he's been raised these five years to do.

He will. I know he will. I know that the same way I know I am going to boo-hoo like a big old baby the minute my tush hits the driver's seat that morning. Knowing doesn't make the worrying go away. And my job, my mother's job, is to worry for him so that maybe he won't need to do it himself.

Meanwhile, pass me the Kleenex, a latte, and my cell phone. I got some pacing to do.

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