(no subject)
A recent even turned me all reflective and tnrospective.
I was never one of those girly girls. You know the ones with curls and bows, dresses and tights, and not a smudge of dirt on their faces. I was more the ripped jeans, skinned knees, dirt all over my body kind of kids. My mom swears that she would bathe me, put me to bed and I would wake up dirty in the morning. I was a tomboy to the nth degree. I despised wearing dresses (just forget about the tights) and having my hair brushed on a daily basis was the best definition I had for torture at the time. I loved playing sports and hated, I mean HATED playing with dolls. My family loves to recount the Christmas when I was eight and my brother was six. The school we went to was generous enough to provide a present for every kid at the Holidays. All the boys got board games, and all the girls got…yes, you guessed it…DOLLS! Upon arriving home, I promptly threw my baby doll across the room and lamented the unfairness that girls should have to have dolls just because they were girls. What can I say? That’s the kind of kid I was.
I was never one of those young women obsessed with boys or fashion or making an impression…unless it was in a sports setting, or with my sense of humor or intelligence. And in my fourth year of college I met a young man almost as sarcastic and opinionated as I was. One summer afternoon during a pick up softball game after work, I argued a call with him, bumped him with my hat brim, and kicked dirt on his feet. When he kicked dirt back on me with a smile that lit up his entire face and an evil gleam in his eye, I knew it was love. Romantic, no? What can I say? That’s just the kind of girl I was.
I was never one of those overly sensitive women who get all weepy at things. I didn’t cry when I walked down the aisle at my wedding, or when my daughter was born almost six years later. To me these occasions just didn’t warrant tears. The times I can remember really crying were either in anger or frustration at a situation, or genuine moments of grief over a death. I’ve just never been one of those women who burst into tears at the drop of a hat, and I suppose my husband has gotten used to that over the years. I guess I should have cut him a break then, when we were driving home from work one day about four months into my pregnancy. The traffic slowed and we crept past a puppy that had been hit and killed in the road. A Good Samaritan was standing in traffic directing people around the scene, and I just began to sob. Not cry mind you. I mean body wracking, people staring at me, almost wrecked the car SOBS. My husband was completely silent for several minutes as I bawled my eyes out, until apparently he just couldn’t contain himself any longer.
“You know that wasn’t our dog, right?” he said.
In fact, we didn’t even have a dog. We have NEVER had a dog. “Get out,” I said, tears instantly replaced by fury as I turned to stare a whole into his idiotic head. His mouth hung open just slightly in surprise and I could see the tiniest bit of fear in his eyes. What can I say? That’s the kind of woman I am.
Or at least, that’s what I thought about myself until the other day. My only child’s first day of kindergarten to be exact. I took the day off work, planning to make her a nice breakfast and get some painting done in the house while she was at school. Imagine my surprise when I found myself crying before she even woke up for the day. Just thinking about all the changes that were coming was immediately and completely overwhelming. No more taking a day off during the week to go to the zoo, she’d have school. No more planning for my husband and daughter to come meet me at the hospital for lunch, she’d be in school. My husband seemed mystified by my sadness. The fact that she was excited about going to school was the only factor for him. Don’t get me wrong, I was so excited for her to begin this new adventure, but I was just unimaginably sad for me. I managed to pull myself together to make sprinkle pancakes for breakfast and to get her to her classroom to meet her teachers. She plopped herself down on the floor and started unzipping her backpack to get papers out, and she dismissed us with a wave and a smile. I made it all the way to the car before the steady stream of tears began anew, this time accompanied by a lovely nausea in the pit of my stomach. But this time, as I pulled out of the school parking lot with one more glance in the rear view mirror, I felt like the tears might never stop. In my thirty seven years, I have never felt as sad and empty as I did at that moment.
And I guess it’s a mom thing, because dads just don’t feel it like we do. I’ve talked with lots of moms about it in the last few weeks and they almost all report feeling something very similar when their kids started school, no matter how long ago that might have been. That’s when I got it. It isn’t about the kids at all, it’s about the moms. It’s about fear and love and powerlessness. In the first five years of her life, either my husband or I was with her almost every minute to protect her and guide her. We spent countless hours teaching her all the things we thought she needed to know: to use the potty, to dress herself, to say please and than you, to be respectful and brave, to not take toys from other kids, and to not pick the cat up by her head. But no matter what she did, we were right there to pick her up, brush her off, kiss boo boos and soothe hurt feelings and broken hearts. And for the very first time, on that first day of school, we were sending her out into her little piece of the big and sometimes cruel world, and all we could do was hope. Hope that we’d done a good job giving her the values and confidence she would need to hold her own. I know there are going to be mean kids who pick on her, or who won’t play with her, and she’s going to have to figure out to deal with that without us. I thought somehow I had more time. She’s only five, she’s not ready. I’m not ready. I don’t want to let go just yet.
As my husband and I stood at the fence that first day waiting on her class to come out, I could feel myself fidgeting, and I’m not sure I’ve ever been that nervous. He of course, looked completely composed and not worried in the least. I’m not sure that was true, but still. Didn’t he wonder if she’d gotten in trouble or made any friends? Did she like her teacher? Had she sat quietly listening during story time (not likely), or had she been one of the kids getting constantly “redirected” during the day (God, I hoped not)? But then there she was lining up against the wall with her class, waiting to be dismissed to parents individually. Her face brightened when she saw us and she smiled and waved, informing all the kids around her that we were her mommy and daddy. Her face was smudged with dirt and she sported new grass stains on the knees of her capris. When the teacher called her name she ran to me and I picked her up and hugged her fiercely. As I set her back down, her shirt rode up a little and I noticed her name tag stuck on her belly under her shirt, instead of on her shirt like everyone else’s. I just shook my head and asked the burning question. “How was it?”
“Good.”
“What was your favorite thing?” I asked.
“Playing outside,” she said without hesitation.
Fair enough. “How about your second favorite thing?”
“Lunch.”
Okay, I should have seen that one coming. The three of us walked hand in hand to the car. “Did you make any friends?” I couldn’t help myself, I needed some information here. I had fears of my own to allay.
“Yeah.”
I rolled my eyes and let out a sigh, “Do you know any of their names?”
“I can’t remember.”
I glanced at my husband and let out a bigger sigh. It was amazing how quickly she could send my frustration levels through the roof. But as I buckled her into her booster seat, she looked up at me with her big brown eyes and said, “Thanks for picking me up from school. I love you.”
And just like that my heart was filled with more love than I even knew existed in the world before she was born. The frustration was gone and tears once again brimmed in my eyes. “I love you too,” I said as I gave her a quick kiss before shutting her door. I looked over the roof of the car and saw my husband grinning at me, as the tears slid down my cheeks. He shook his head with a laugh and got in the car, and I didn’t bother to wipe the tears away, not one bit ashamed of them. What can I say? I guess that’s just the kind of mom I am after all.