Post Script

As the school year begins to dwindle, I’ve thought back to the start of this academic year. As those of you who’ve read my blog know, I struggled a bit (ok, a TON) when Abby started Kindergarten. I slowly and patiently prepared her, but forgot to prepare myself. Abby experienced not a moment of fear or apprehension—her confidence played the vibrant melody to my dissonant harmony.

I knew, even back then, that we’d (I’d) hit a stride during the school year despite my aching heart, gaping at the prospect of my baby heading to school each day. I was right—we found a great, rhythmic pace of learning, separation and growth, with daily regroupings to dissect the day. Abby’s joyful (albeit tired) embrace of school dragged me from my private doldrums into the role of joyful participant. Occasionally though, after I’d dropped Abby off at school, I’d linger and watch her disappear into the school building. Occasionally, my heart would break right open again (just as it did in August) and I’d wonder how we’d gotten to this point in her maturation. Now we’re a month away from summer break. The time, as they say, flies.

Henry will be three next month. He’s morphed from a chubby toddler to a young, bright, rambunctious boy. Abby is no longer a little girl. She’s stretched out, lost two teeth and her baby fat. I can see her ribs and knees. We’re reading science books with words like “courting” and “mating”.

(I have girlfriends, by the way, with daughters who have started puberty. In hushed voices, they confide about the physical changes of their daughters’ bodies. Seeing those daughters, with their bra straps showing subtly under their shirts, makes me gasp for air. Bra straps lead to first kisses, commencement speeches, young marriages and round baby bumps.)

As my own children grow, I understand that we are simultaneously years and moments away from these milestones. I experience brief glimmers and pangs of an empty nest—I realize that I prime my children for departures, journeys and landmarks, but often do not extend the same courtesy to myself. Hubby and I encourage the kids to grow and hope they will let go. But we don’t prepare our minds and hearts for our own empty hands. I fear, however, that if I start prepping myself for their not-so imminent exits into the big world, I will loose the peace and joy of the current minute.

So, I try to cherish the lumps and the loveliness of each stage of their lives. This presents a true challenge (especially when I’m wrangling a wet, almost 40 pound, exhausted and screaming Henry out of the tub, or when I’m dealing with a sassy, tired Abby). But I continue to attempt to strike a balance between fully appreciating the gift of each moment AND realizing that it won’t last forever.

For now, I will treasure this minute as both kids sleep under our roof. I’ll enjoy the scent of their baby wash on my hands, fresh from bathing those sweet angels who will awake before the sun tomorrow.

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.”

New School

Today we visited Abby's new elementary school. Not only is it new for us, it is new for all. Construction is complete and they’re giving tours so all students and their families can view the new digs.

I started to cry this morning when I told my dearest friend that our day would include a tour of the school. I now realize that this is one of those poignant intervals of my life and my response has been reflective, raw and guttural. (Note: I successfully buried all gutturals and purchased school supplies. The tears gave several stellar attempts at a visit but my stoicism prevailed.) (Note 2: Abby is over-the-moon thrilled about starting Kindergarten and wants to know why she can’t start now and why she can't wear her uniform now.)

When the tour started, I reached out to hold Abby's hand. I will be forever grateful that her hand met mine as I desperately NEEDED to hold hers. Her cool, smooth little palm nestled next to mine.

Technically we were shown around the school by a first grade teacher and I guess our legs carried us through. But my official tour guide was my emotion. It showed me Abby's curly blond head, bent in concentration, at a brand new Kindergarten table. It pointed out that my daughter would be using the cute little potties and short sinks in the bathroom all by herself. Then it drafted a picture of Abby, beads of sweat on her brow, hair flying as she ran off the playground. It reminded me that she would be one of the youngest, tiniest students in the entire school.

I held her hand as long as I could, until my brave, independent little girl did just what I’ve always hoped she would. She let go.