Well, last week really happened. Really. I've been dreading the moment since summer began, but dreading it did me no favors. Neither did the crying or the fretting or the hemming and hawing. None of it. None of it prepared me for one of the hardest days my life has ever seen.
Taking my little fella down the hall and into that kindergarten classroom was rough. Even though I know he's in good hands. It was rough. We're peas and carrots, me and my Summit. Peas and carrots. He's been right there with me for 5 years. Right there. He loves me the most. He gets me, and I get him. I get his sense of humor and his sweet little ways. I know what he needs; that he's kind of sensitive and sometimes shy; that he's anxious about certain bugs; that he says he doesn't like math, but he really does; that when he gets scared, he really needs someone to hold his hand a little tighter. And he needs me the most.
And, I need him, too. I like having him around. He's funny. Really funny. And, he's sweet. Really sweet. He likes to be silly and laugh and make other people laugh. And, when I'm having a bad day, he tries to make it better, because he likes people to be happy the way he is always happy. I think it's awesome to watch him play with his toys (right now his favorite ones are the cheap little guys that come out of the gumball machine at San Jose); his imagination is so huge, and it makes me want to be fun and carefree and creative. I love his questions and his easy conversations. He keeps me grounded and young at heart (...clearly not on my face). Ha!
Still, it had to happen. Kindergarten had to happen. I had to let him go, and in doing so, know that this was the first of many times that I'll have to let him go a little farther from me. That morning was hard. Super hard. But, we did it. He was nervous, and he held my hand tighter than he's ever held it before. And, even though he wanted to cry, even though he didn't want to do it, he did it. He was brave and strong and ready. He stood there, contemplating his cubby, contemplating his new classroom, and he said his goodbyes and gave us his biggest hugs. And, he let us go. I think it was proof that we had done all we could to prepare him for moments like this. We're doing something right. Thank goodness.
And me? I bawled my eyes out, wondering where this kindergarten business came from.
Taking my little fella down the hall and into that kindergarten classroom was rough. Even though I know he's in good hands. It was rough. We're peas and carrots, me and my Summit. Peas and carrots. He's been right there with me for 5 years. Right there. He loves me the most. He gets me, and I get him. I get his sense of humor and his sweet little ways. I know what he needs; that he's kind of sensitive and sometimes shy; that he's anxious about certain bugs; that he says he doesn't like math, but he really does; that when he gets scared, he really needs someone to hold his hand a little tighter. And he needs me the most.
And, I need him, too. I like having him around. He's funny. Really funny. And, he's sweet. Really sweet. He likes to be silly and laugh and make other people laugh. And, when I'm having a bad day, he tries to make it better, because he likes people to be happy the way he is always happy. I think it's awesome to watch him play with his toys (right now his favorite ones are the cheap little guys that come out of the gumball machine at San Jose); his imagination is so huge, and it makes me want to be fun and carefree and creative. I love his questions and his easy conversations. He keeps me grounded and young at heart (...clearly not on my face). Ha!
Still, it had to happen. Kindergarten had to happen. I had to let him go, and in doing so, know that this was the first of many times that I'll have to let him go a little farther from me. That morning was hard. Super hard. But, we did it. He was nervous, and he held my hand tighter than he's ever held it before. And, even though he wanted to cry, even though he didn't want to do it, he did it. He was brave and strong and ready. He stood there, contemplating his cubby, contemplating his new classroom, and he said his goodbyes and gave us his biggest hugs. And, he let us go. I think it was proof that we had done all we could to prepare him for moments like this. We're doing something right. Thank goodness.
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