Backpacks and bubbles of hope

He woke in the middle of the night and said his tummy hurt. Later he thought better, the booms of thunder made him scared. He was shy at the bottom of the stairs, speaking in his softest voice and hugging his puffy green dinosaur.

I reminded him the first day of school was tomorrow and he should get some sleep. "The thunder scares me though." I picked him up and felt his little heart beating out of his Buzz Lightyear pajamas.

I carried him to our bed and tucked him in. Andrew stayed with him until he fell asleep. He needed us. Maybe his head raced with ideas about what his first day might bring. Or maybe, he just knew how to work the system. A little a maestro in his own right playing mommy and daddy like a fiddle.

Either way, there is no substitute for the feeling of safety a parent can offer – a big bed at the bottom of the stairs, a sip of cold water from the fridge, a pillow that smells like shampoo, covers that swallow you whole, the rain coming down in spurts, heavy and slow, as you drift off to sleep with your best buds by your side. 

***

Morning comes fast and he is strong-minded when he wakes.

“I want to do it myself.” He puts on his Elmo undies and pats his belly. “Don’t help me okay.” I turn around and he is dressed, determined to flex his independence. “Look mommy, look.” He is using the potty, slipping on his shoes and brushing his hair. “I did it!”

These are scenes I never imagined during 2 a.m. wake-up calls for formula. A hungry lion, he would munch on his bottle like it was his last meal, then cry again, hinting at trapped gas. I never thought when he was wriggling like a caterpillar in his crib trying desperately to turn over, that this day would come. The first day of pre-school, complete with a new backpack and a bubble of hope so big the whole world could fit inside.

When I drop him off he finds his hook, his nametag and his teacher. We high five. I am on my own. No tears, only thoughts.

It is perfect to be needed and perfect to not.

***

After class his teacher tells me he had an awesome morning. This fills me up like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day balloon. I am elated and proud of him.

In the parking lot I can’t resist. “What do you remember from the day?” I hold both hands, kneel at the toddler’s feet, look intensely, searching for the answers through his brave eyes. “Tell me, tell me.” I interrogate the little soul, thirsty for even the slightest remembrance of pre-school classroom time. He starts to melt. At first its the faintest cry, then louder. He wants to go back.

I avert the sobs with a promise of a special treat. Munchkins for my munkin. He warms to the idea. We drive. Between bites of chocolate glaze, I ease in a few questions. He begins to open up.

“Mama? You gonna take me to school again?”

“Yes. Thursday,” I tell him, hoping he can wait 48 hours from this moment without breaking down.

“Okay, Mama.” His eyelids begin to close as he drifts off into minivan dreamland, a tightly held munchkin in his fist.

It is perfect to be needed and perfect to not.