It happens at about the same time every year. The summer zips past at breakneck speed, and before we can catch a breath, it is time for the three words that elate parents and cause children everywhere to shudder and sigh ... BACK TO SCHOOL. While most parents gladly anticipate the genesis of another school year, there is another smaller group, one with more restrictive membership requirements, that approaches this time with a swirling mixture of emotions. We are the parents who will leave a child at school for the very first time.
I became a member of this club five years ago when I nervously walked our older son, Jesse into his classroom and bravely declared it the "coolest" Kindergarten room I had ever seen. I reminded him again how lucky he was to have a whole roomful of new friends to play with. I lingered - probably longer than I should have - just to be sure he wouldn't be frightened when he realized I had gone. I shouldn't have worried. Jesse was much too involved with a pile of brightly colored Lego blocks to even notice my tearful departure. I rushed home and spent the greater part of the day holding and hovering over our younger son, checking the clock and longing for the hours to pass more quickly.
We've endured four subsequent "back to school" seasons since then, and I must admit that they have become progressively easier to bear. This year, however, the emotions are swirling with an even greater intensity than before. I feel in the core of my soul a profound difference. This year our younger son, Benjamin, "the Baby", will embark on his own journey through the hallowed halls of education.
I chide myself regularly as the "big day" approaches, reminding myself that I've done this before. Besides, Benjamin has been attending half-day preschool. It won't be like leaving him for the very first time. The logical part of my brain agrees, but my heart is harder to convince. This time will be different. There will be no pink, laughing baby at home to cuddle and hold. This time our family will be forever changed.
In pondering these realizations, it occurs to me that Benjamin will no longer belong just to us, but to the great big world. Up to now he has been a much-adored member of a small society of family and friends. From birth he has been assured that he belongs and has been encouraged lovingly in all pursuits. He has known undoubtedly that should disappointment befall him, there are always loving arms to hold him and kind words to comfort him. Will these lessons be enough, I wonder, to sustain him as he takes his first steps into this larger society? Will the encouragement we've given him be enough to spur him onward when he encounters defeat? Will the self-assurance he displays within our group of family members and friends remain when teachers and school officials are too busy to remind him just what a special little boy he is? Will the kindness we've tried to instill overcome the hurt when unkind words are spoken?
Before the enormity of my emotions begin to overwhelm me, I remind myself of another mother, a founding member of the club, who also had to prepare her Son to step out into a world less patient and less loving than their own. Did Mary have the same concerns that are haunting me now, centuries later? She must have - she was a mother. Knowing the path that her Son's life would take, how it must have broken her heart to let Him go. The only thing she could do was to leave Him in God's hands, where He had been from the beginning. That is what I would have to do with my son as well - leave him in God's hands.
The morning is hectic. The day I've dreaded is finally here. I try to concentrate on packing lunches and loading book bags as my sons chatter excitedly in the background. Jesse begs, one more time, for me to let them ride the bus to school. He assures me, one more time, that he will make sure Benjamin gets to his classroom. I calmly explain, one more time, that moms need to go on the first day, just to make sure there are no more fees to pay or papers to fill out. I remind him that there will be plenty of days yet for them to ride that BIG yellow bus.
As I turn the car toward the school, tears threaten to pour. The boys are oblivious. All they can talk about is finally getting to go to the same school together. I park the car and begin the pilgrimage with dozens of other parents. Just inside the school's front door, my heart fills as I watch my boys hug each other and bid each other good-bye. Jesse, who lately has been "too big" for public displays of affection, squeezes me tightly. He whispers importantly in my ear, "Don't worry, Mom. I'll keep an eye on Benjamin for you!" As he skips happily down the hall, I'm left to marvel at what a wonderful young man he is becoming.
Grasping Benjamin's hand, perhaps a little too tightly, I turn and head toward his new classroom. We enter a colorful room, beautifully decorated, and perfectly adapted to the needs of five-year-old children. We are greeted by a smiling, cheerful teacher, genuinely pleased, it seems, that we are here. She is busy. Too busy, I fear, to remember that not only am I dropping off my child, but I'm handing her my heart as well. We look for and locate the table displaying Benjamin's name in neat, manuscript letters. After depositing his new crayons, scissors, pencils and glue at his desk, Benjamin points excitedly to his name on a cubby against the wall. We hang up his Looney Toons book bag and his Spiderman lunchbox. We stow his nap mat on the bottom shelf. I linger, but Benjamin hardly seems to notice. His eyes are riveted on a box of Lego blocks, silently enticing him from the toy shelf. I run my fingers through his hair, bend down and squeeze him tight, and remind him to be a good boy. He flashes he a full-dimpled smile and replies simply, "Bye, Mom".
I pause at the classroom door, yearning to stay just a while longer. Just as I'm heading back in, I'm touched by a peace and reminded that my son, like Mary's, is in the hands of his Father. I can trust that to be enough to see him through whatever the world might throw his way. I sigh, square my shoulders, and turn back toward the hallway. As I make my way to the door, I see another mother, emotions swirling on her face. With one hand she holds tightly to the hand of her five-year-old child. With the other she holds the carrier containing her beautiful, giggling baby. I want to run to her and tell her how lucky she is. She has her baby to hold and cuddle and occupy her time. Instead, as our eyes meet, I feel a kinship with her that only parents in this particular situation could appreciate. I smile and nod, and softly whisper as I head to my car, "Welcome to the club".
