Kindergarten starts August 20, 2007.
So far, I've barely been able to think about this. Bob is registered. He's had his tour of the school and his new classroom. He's signed up for after-school care. He can't wait.
I'm freaking out.
There's the obvious reason--Bob's past and present behavior issues and my wondering if they will follow him to public school and my fear that they will and my wondering what the hell will come of us all if they do.
But there's more to it than that.
Bob is my only child. We've only known each other for going on 6 years now, but it seems like a lifetime. We've had our shares of highs and more than our share of lows. Our relationship has gone from great to horrible to great to horrible and back again. We've laughed together, we've cried together, we've butted heads more times than I can count.
Bob started going to daycare when he was 5 months old. Ever since then, he's been enrolled in some form of daycare or preschool, so the transition to public school shouldn't be a big deal. But it is. Daycare/preschool is where you take naps, and wear pull-ups, and have snacks, and even though everyone would like it very much if you learned to read and write, the real focus is just on learning how to function with the rest of the world. As long as you're in daycare/preschool, you're still just a baby. And you'll probably be one forever.
Once you walk through the doors of public school, you're not a baby anymore. And it's official.
There is, on the top shelf in Bob's closet, a Winnie-the-Pooh music box some relative or another gave him when he was an infant. I've gotten rid of most of Bob's baby toys, but I keep this for a reason. There was an afternoon, or an evening, I don't remember, but it was the summer of Bob's first year, and I don't remember his exact age--6 months, 8 months, 10 months, at any rate, he wasn't yet walking--but I remember we were playing together in his bedroom, and that music box was playing its tinny little song, and Bob came crawling to me as fast as his hands and knees could manage, laughing all the way. When he reached me, he pulled himself into my lap and hugged me, and let me hug him. And I thought to myself, some day, not so far from now, he'll be running...and this baby will be gone. And I started to cry, but I didn't let him see, because he was still happy, and still letting me hug him.
I've thought about that moment a million times since it happened. I feel like I shortchanged Bob in so many ways during the first few years of his life. No baby should have to witness screaming matches between his parents, or watch his father back his mother into a corner. No toddler should suddenly find himself being shuttled back and forth between mom's house and dad's house without much rhyme or reason. No 3 year old should have to do so much for himself because his mother doesn't have the emotional strength to handle it all because she's such a wreck, herself. I admit I've been less than the perfect parent, and have really only in the last couple of years reached what I would consider "responsible parent" status. I was going through hell, myself. And I'm doing everything I can now to make it better. But that doesn't take those mistakes away. That slate will never wipe clean. And there aren't any do-overs.
So when I think about Bob walking down the hallway of his first elementary school for the first time, all I can do is wish I could go back. Go back to that day in his room, when he was a baby, and do better by him. And let him know that in some ways, he'll always be that baby, and I'll always love him just as much.
So far, I've barely been able to think about this. Bob is registered. He's had his tour of the school and his new classroom. He's signed up for after-school care. He can't wait.
I'm freaking out.
There's the obvious reason--Bob's past and present behavior issues and my wondering if they will follow him to public school and my fear that they will and my wondering what the hell will come of us all if they do.
But there's more to it than that.
Bob is my only child. We've only known each other for going on 6 years now, but it seems like a lifetime. We've had our shares of highs and more than our share of lows. Our relationship has gone from great to horrible to great to horrible and back again. We've laughed together, we've cried together, we've butted heads more times than I can count.
Bob started going to daycare when he was 5 months old. Ever since then, he's been enrolled in some form of daycare or preschool, so the transition to public school shouldn't be a big deal. But it is. Daycare/preschool is where you take naps, and wear pull-ups, and have snacks, and even though everyone would like it very much if you learned to read and write, the real focus is just on learning how to function with the rest of the world. As long as you're in daycare/preschool, you're still just a baby. And you'll probably be one forever.
Once you walk through the doors of public school, you're not a baby anymore. And it's official.
There is, on the top shelf in Bob's closet, a Winnie-the-Pooh music box some relative or another gave him when he was an infant. I've gotten rid of most of Bob's baby toys, but I keep this for a reason. There was an afternoon, or an evening, I don't remember, but it was the summer of Bob's first year, and I don't remember his exact age--6 months, 8 months, 10 months, at any rate, he wasn't yet walking--but I remember we were playing together in his bedroom, and that music box was playing its tinny little song, and Bob came crawling to me as fast as his hands and knees could manage, laughing all the way. When he reached me, he pulled himself into my lap and hugged me, and let me hug him. And I thought to myself, some day, not so far from now, he'll be running...and this baby will be gone. And I started to cry, but I didn't let him see, because he was still happy, and still letting me hug him.
I've thought about that moment a million times since it happened. I feel like I shortchanged Bob in so many ways during the first few years of his life. No baby should have to witness screaming matches between his parents, or watch his father back his mother into a corner. No toddler should suddenly find himself being shuttled back and forth between mom's house and dad's house without much rhyme or reason. No 3 year old should have to do so much for himself because his mother doesn't have the emotional strength to handle it all because she's such a wreck, herself. I admit I've been less than the perfect parent, and have really only in the last couple of years reached what I would consider "responsible parent" status. I was going through hell, myself. And I'm doing everything I can now to make it better. But that doesn't take those mistakes away. That slate will never wipe clean. And there aren't any do-overs.
So when I think about Bob walking down the hallway of his first elementary school for the first time, all I can do is wish I could go back. Go back to that day in his room, when he was a baby, and do better by him. And let him know that in some ways, he'll always be that baby, and I'll always love him just as much.
posted by Mitzi Green at 1:24 PM
2 Comments:
Awesome post. Really, it hit home for me.
I realized a few months ago that I don't remember most of Monkey Man's first two years. I was drowning not only in PPD but also depressed over my nephew's death as well, and it was all I could do to put one foot in front of the other some days. I missed a lot being so wrapped up in grief. But you know, there's nothing you or I can do about it except move forward and do the very best we can, right?
I think you've done an amazing job. Especially looking at that picture you sent me yesterday. He's a great, great kid.
My twins start Kindergarten on the same day as Bob. I know I will cry. I am only sending them for half day. Somehow that just makes it seem like they are still babies, you know. And you all are not alone in these feelings. Somedays I sit and TRY to remember all I can, stressing that I didn't save enough things or write enough down. My oldest is 16 and my youngest are the twins. There are a 11 and 12 year old between the youngest and oldest. I had really really bad PPD with the twins and knew from experience of the other kids that I need to "save" more things. But then it became an obsession because I knew I would be depressed for not remembering the way they smell and the sound of their little tiny voices. So it's kind of a vicious cycle. But I truly believe that all these kids, yours, mine, hers, will KNOW that we did the best we could with what we had. There is just nothing comparable to a mother's love.
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