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Passage to Preschool

I was pushing the top of his long-sleeve over his head and chattin’ up preschool and his new back pack, when he came right out and said it.  “I don’t want to go to preschool.”  And I felt myself stiffen.  It hadn’t gone this way with his sister. “Why don’t…” but he cut me off and velcroed both arms around my neck.  “I want to stay here with you, mommy.”  Something I couldn’t recall his sister saying either.

We were at preschool just for an hour today.  An hour that might easily pass at the campfire with a marshmallow or two on a stick and a good joke.  Were we only at a campfire.  But an hour that passed instead, as if the clock had ticked its last at ten after ten and laid still. Very still.

Which meant that so much could happen in say, the next 50 minutes.

Um…yes, yes it could.

My son would be the only one to wet his pants twenty minutes before the hour was up.  And the only one sobbing in the gated play area, thinking I’d left.  And again as his class filed back inside, convinced I’d abandoned him for good.  A sad report, I suppose, if I leave it at that.  But I can’t. 

His morning was filled with so much more.

He’d charged ahead in the parking lot, ready to take preschool on.  Even if it was just for the 100 feet to the door.

 

He’d found a hook for his backpack and hung the thing himself.

He’d clomped the giraffes around and hurt no one in the process.

He’d stopped crying long enough to actually enjoy himself outside.

He’d stood on the yellow line at 11 a.m. with his backpack on his shoulders.

And he’d found his way back to me.

I love this kid. 

And I love that he ain’t all grown up….

just yet.

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