Sept. 3, 2009

My boy is going to first grade this week.

Here’s the thing. When you’re a young mom with young chicks running around tearing the house apart, all-day school sounds like this Heaven-sent oasis, a place where you can send your hoodlum to get educated and civilized, free of charge.

Someone else steps in to handle the time-outs, and my creative manipulation techniques take a back seat to his teacher’s more professional and more honest methods of classroom coercion. In theory, during the first six years of his life, first grade sounds like the answer to everything.

But going over his back-to-school packet and talking to him about his goals and plans, I’m faced with the naked truth. This boy, this cherished little soul that I adore more than any of my ten toes, is leaving me, and in a way, he’s not coming back.

His entire world is about to change, and we, his family, will be pushed to the fringes of his social structure. Our lunchtime chats and early afternoon shopping sessions are over, and he’s not going to be here day in and day out asking me to perform menial tasks, like printing off coloring pages, or putting together the rockets from the back of the cereal boxes (I swear, someone at General Mills has it out for me).

And I find that each time he takes one of these monumental “Mother May I?” steps, I have to pause and reflect. Have I done my job? Does he know Jesus? Will he remember how much God loves him when that stupid kid on the bus tells him he’s a dummy? Does he realize how talented and smart he is?

These years he’s spent under my tutelage and thumb have been critical, and I hate to think that I’ve taken them for granted. I chose to stay home with these little children for a reason; have I made it worth the sacrifice? I don’t think there’s a parent alive who hasn’t looked back and questioned their methods and antics, or wished they’d been better or smarter or more involved.

I, who never worries about anything, find myself worried. Worried about his self-confidence. Worried about his friendships. Worried about the fact that, like it or not, I’m officially on my way out of his life.

I find myself telling him all the time how important it is that no matter how old he gets, he always hugs his mommy. When he asks why, I say it’s because she’s needy and fragile and manipulative, and needs to know that he loves her. How will I know if he doesn’t hug me?

And so, this week I give up that dreaded eleven-thirty kindergarten pick-up time. No more chatty cheese sandwiches after school, he’s now a full-time, hot lunch, bus-riding stud who thinks he looks better in jeans than shorts, and cares about cool sneakers (he’s also determined to wear as many pieces of new school clothing as he can on the first day).

They were right; growing up is so hard.

For me.

See more at Annie's blog at regardingannie.com