Kindergarten is scary.
Not for Suttie. All he has to do is sing some songs, not get
tagged first on the playground, glue some scraps onto some other scraps, burn
through about 15 “girlfriends,” and keep track of his Lego Chima notebook.
I mean that it’s scary for me and not just because my baby
is going off into the world to explore his big kid potential while I sit at
home smelling his hospital blanket (although there’ll be some of that). I know
that he’ll be fine; he’ll make some friends, he’ll learn some stuff.
No, kindergarten is scary for me for two other, completely
selfish reasons.
First, it forces me to admit, encourage, and even insist on
my son’s independence. Of course, I mean the wipe-your-own-butt,
open-your-own-fruit-cup type of independence. I’m not asking him to pay the
cable bill.
And I know that this is a good thing. I see it as such.
Except when I watch him struggle to open a go-gurt or when that bastard of a
tear-tab finally breaks free and he slings fermented goop across his face. In
those moments, I cringe…right before I grab my camera and post that shit all
over Facebook.
Thus, over the course of this summer, our pre-kindergarten
regimen has been something akin to a mini boot camp for self-reliance. It’s
involved exercises in consumption procedures (“If you want to open the string
cheese, you’re gonna have to pull those two tabs apart. No, not that end. The
other end. Yeah, pull them apart. In opposite directions. Like away from each
other. GAH!…just give it”); tactical dodgeball training (“Son, in six days,
you’re gonna take one straight to the face if you don’t learn how to scoop and
pivot”); and conflict resolution (“Violence is never the answer…unless somebody
takes your cream pie and then you put that punk on his back”).
The second reason is that I like change about as much as I
like fat-free mayonnaise.
As Suttie embarks on this new adventure, I am, too. I
realized this when I was preparing his school supplies to turn in at
orientation. I found myself stressing over whether his teacher would want the
supplies in their original packages or not. Should I open them? Won’t it be
harder for her if I don’t because then she’ll have to open all of them during
class time? But what if she wants them to stay neatly packaged? What if
something gets lost when they’re loose? OH DEAR GOD, WHAT IF THE EXPO MARKERS
DRY OUT?!
And then there’s the terrifying friends element. Like most
kindergarteners, he doesn’t know anyone in his class. He’ll have to make new
friends, and as he does, so will I. How else will I know how Justin’s mom gets
her cupcakes so springy or that Connor’s dad hides fireworks in the basement
(“Son, if Connor ever asks you if you want to see something cool, call me, and
I’ll come and get you”).
What’s even the protocol for making friends based on your
kids? Walk up and say, “Hi, I’m Sutton’s mom. I have an acerbic sense of humor
and a potty mouth. Want to be besties and raise our kids together?” I’m still
working on my sales pitch.
At this minute, if you ask Suttie if he’s ready for school,
he’ll say, “I’m nervous. I don’t know what to do.” Immediately I tell him,
“Don’t worry; you’ll be fine,” but I feel like I should say that into a
mirror. Because what I didn’t realize
about my son going to school is that his going to kindergarten is my going to
kindergarten. His first day is my first day. His fears and nervousness are my
own.
In the immortal words of my husband, words that he said to
me after I called him at work crying on the first day that I was home alone with
a newborn and a three-year-old, words that I have vowed to make him eat over
and over again until the end of forever, “It’s been done before.”
And it (i.e., kindergarten) has been done before….by me,
like 26 years ago. So why in the hell am I having to go through this again?
Read ahead for the alternate feel-good ending:
He’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. Yada yada yada. School’s
awesome.
