Milestones
As the man slid the tiny needle into my son’s arm, I held him and braced
myself and waited for the flinch and the scream from my three-year-old. I looked away from the needle and heard…
Nothing. Not a
peep. Not a flinch. My brave boy watched curiously, as if the
tube of blood was the most interesting thing in the world, and I laughed with
relief. I had put this off for months,
worried that it was going to be an ordeal for both of us. Now I wondered why I had waited so long.
He is so much stronger than I give him credit to be.
I packed his first school lunch today for preschool, and the results of
that blood test are on my mind: unfortunately, it was not the news we had hoped
for; he is still off-the-charts allergic to eggs. I think about the girl who had a fatal
reaction to a snack with hidden peanuts, and I worry about him sharing food at school and not understanding that he should say no.
Every day, I try to relax and give in to the rhythm of
raising a little boy with plenty of energy and joie de vivre to spare. Every day, I worry about giving him
enough slack to explore without giving myself a heart attack in the
meantime.
He has been role-playing with his lovey; he tells me that
Bunny is allergic to peanuts, as I am, and he is allergic to eggs. He seems to understand the concept of not
taking food that is not his, but he is still so small, to me. So big.
And still so small.
Lost in thought, I assemble each element to place into his
new Curious George lunch box, yellow and shiny.
The labels are brightly colored and identify all of his things as his.
Did I sticker too many things?
Do I still need to cut these grapes in half?
Is he going to choke on these pretzels without me there?
What if he is sad at school?
Come on, get a grip,
I chastise myself. He is four. He can handle all of
this.
But I won’t be there
to help him.
Let go.
But I am scared.
It’s OK to be scared.
You’re a good mom.
I don’t want to cry at
dropoff.
Do your best to smile in front of him. He needs to know that you are strong.
Letting go is my least favorite thing about parenting.
I have to trust that his teachers will take good care of
him, and know that this step is good for him.
He loves to play and be with other children, and he has met and likes
many of his classmates already.
The night before his first day of school, I held him in my
arms after his bath and rocked him like a baby, just for a minute, until he wiggled away. Then he sat up and we talked
about school, and I told him that his favorite superheroes go to school.
“Even Thor?”
“Even Thor, yes.”
“Batman too?”
“Yes. Batman hangs
out with Superman and The Flash and Wonder Woman, and they all learn and play
and have a great time together.”
“Why can’t you go with me, Mama?” It squeezed my heart.
I told him the story about when I was a little girl and started preschool, and the way I said "Bye, Mom!" without another look back. We practiced saying, "Bye, Mom!"
I told him the story about when I was a little girl and started preschool, and the way I said "Bye, Mom!" without another look back. We practiced saying, "Bye, Mom!"
It’s one of many steps he will have to take without me. Away from me.
Necessary, but not easy.
I walk him into his classroom and put his lunchbox and snack in the appropriate bins, and hang his tiny new backpack with Bunny inside on his peg. The teachers are waiting, their kind faces smiling at each child and offering hugs as desired. My son is already interested in the dinosaurs on the table, and I get ready to make my exit.
"See you later!" I say, tears in my throat.
"Bye, Mom and Dad!" he says, just like we practiced.
And we walk out the door. My new friend Shelley is there and sees the look on my face; she stops to give me the hugs I need right at that moment. You're a good mom, she tells me.
He is much stronger than I give him credit to be. He will be fine; letting go gives him the chance to show how strong and independent he is.
I know I'm stronger than I give myself credit to be, too. We're growing, together.
Love,
