It Takes a Village

Alex starts kindergarten tomorrow. Today was actually the first day, but it was a "getting to know you" kind of day. Steve and I went with him. Tomorrow is the real deal. Tomorrow, I release my baby into the universe and have to trust that it will take care of him.

Today started with a safety talk from one of the bus drivers. I think the kids were supposed to learn how to cross only when the driver gives a signal and to sit quietly on the bus. What I heard is that riding buses is dangerous - just being near buses is dangerous. They can run you over. Buses are filled with blind spots. They can run you over. Buses can catch your leg or your backpack in the door. Crazy road-raged-filled drivers might pass on the right and run you over. If you don't walk inside the yellow line at school, you might be run over. In short, you might be run over. Before today, I was only worried about my 37 pound, smallish, usually five-point-harnessed child being thrown around inside the bus... about a hostile middle schooler harassing him, about a freshman teaching him the F-bomb. My fears were unfounded. Because there are so many, many ways he might be run over before he steps foot on the bus.

And the bus driver's last word to the kids? They have nothing to fear. They shouldn't be nervous. The bus is a safe place for them. Once they get on it?? Oh wait... it isn't safe there either because if a kid is loud and distracts the driver, then that kid has put all the other kids lives in danger. Bus = Danger. We are moving to the village.

Alex, my fearful, leg-clinging preschooler, has been excited all summer to start kindergarten. He clearly views it as the right of passage that it is, and much to my credit, I have hid my anxieties and been excited right along with him. "You can't go wrong in kindergarten," the more experienced parents have told me, and I think it is true. Alex's teacher is kind. Warm. Enthusiastic. What else can you ask for? But this isn't preschool. Twenty kids and their parents piled into her classroom today. Twenty. And just one teacher. Preschool was different. Three teachers greeted 18 kids. There was always someone available to find a band-aid or take a nervous, teary boy outside to find a worm for feeding the turtle while his mother escaped quietly out the door. Tomorrow, I am not even supposed to walk Alex to his classroom. I am supposed to get him to the front door (he isn't riding the bus to school), say good-bye and let someone else help him find his way. This is a lot to ask of a five-year-old, but even more to ask of his mother. I need to write a letter. Dear School People, You want me to leave my son at the door? Better yet walk him out to a bus that may run him over and hope no one distracts the driver before the bus gets to your door? Are you crazy? I am the one who made sure everyone who came within five feet of him during his first six months of life washed their hands and had an up to-date vaccination record. I am the one who paid top dollar to buy and puree organic fruits and vegetables for him to spit at me for the next six months. I am the one who never takes my eyes off the top of his head at swimming lessons. I am the one who makes sure he holds my hand if I can hear one car twenty-seven miles down the road. I am the one who spent three straight days researching the safest car seats. I am the one that wakes up a second before he cries in the night. I have spent nearly every minute of his five years of life watching over him. And you want me to leave him at the door?

Tomorrow I have to leave him at the door.

This morning, I saw the tiniest wave of anxiety. Alex opened his eyes. He looked around. "Today is kindergarten!" he said. "I have waited for this day for 87 years.... Can I hold Nate's hand?"

Yes, I wanted to say. Yes. Hold Nate's hand. Hold Nate's hand because you can't hold mine. Hold it tight even though you have to go to different classrooms. Yes, yes. Hold Nate's hand.

Tomorrow morning at 8 a.m. we meet Nate in his mom in the parking lot. Part of being a good mother is knowing when to express anxiety and when to keep it inside. Tomorrow, I'll keep mine inside as I send my heart, my child out into the universe - holding Nate's hand as he walks in the front door.