Excuse me, Mrs. LaGory

Tonight, on the eve of her first day of Kindergarten, Abby lies in her bed. After we hugged and snuggled and kissed goodnight, she was practicing. Practicing saying her Kindergarten teacher’s name in the softest whisper imaginable,

“Excuse me, Mrs. LaGory…”
“Excuse me, Mrs. LaGory…”
“Excuse me, Mrs. LaGory…”

I lay there, listening to her independent vocal stride.

On Friday evening, we went to the school, saw Abby's classroom and sat at the little tables where she’ll fill her brain with wisdom and insight. And we met Mrs. LaGory. Ever since our meeting, we’ve been practicing saying “Mrs. LaGory” so Abby can say her teacher’s name with ease on her first day.

I, too, have been practicing her name.

“Excuse me, Mrs. LaGory, but today I’m leaving my first born child with you. Please protect her as if she is your own. Please look after her and always keep her best interests and safety in mind.”

“Excuse me, Mrs. LaGory, would you please know that my sweet Abby is very shy and might be very quiet at first but please, please help her integrate with the other students?”

“Excuse me, Mrs. LaGory, but I’m going to leave now. I may stop in the bathroom with the tiny little toilets and throw up after departing this classroom because I not only leave you my daughter today but also my heart. Then, Mrs. LaGory, I’ll try like hell not to bawl all the way home so as not to permanently scar Henry about the pending arrival of his kindergarten debut in three short years.”

“I know she’s ready, Mrs. LaGory. So I’ll leave you two to continue her journey. Together. I’ll pick up where you leave off, at three o’clock each day.”

“Goodbye, Mrs. LaGory. Goodbye, Abby. I’ll meet you on the other side of the day. I love you.”