My coworkers say to me dismissively, “My kids are grown now,” as if it’s a short story to tell. They glibly jump to another topic like a stone skipping water, tapping lightly on the surface without dwelling, and like some defiance of physics, bouncing a few times before sinking. Like a coordinated dance, a feat made to look easy even though there is an art to it. They don’t tell you about the first five years when their kids must have seen Mom and Dad as their entire world, growing tentatively but safely within the shelter of their parents’ sure arms. They don’t pass along stories of the difficult adolescent years when the opposite is true—moody teenagers craving their space and solitude. They don’t revisit the college years, the transitional time when they’ve taught their children enough to step into adulthood and make their own way.
Kindergarten is a mini-college. You move from your small, single-family-home daycare to a new teacher, new classmates, a much bigger school. I pack your Pixar Cars backpack with some supplies and throw a favorite snack into your insulated lunch box with new name labels on everything. I wake you much earlier than you’re used to getting up. We go through our morning routine of breakfast and getting ready. We drop off Dannica to daycare, and then Mommy and Daddy take you to school. You hold Daddy’s hand as you walk from our parked car to your check-in gate, and I get flashbacks of the first day we walked you to daycare, hanging on to Daddy’s finger with two hands, not yet walking independently.
You used to cry all the time at daycare drop-off, but on your first day of kindergarten, you keep up a brave front: saying hi to your teacher, trying to engage your new classmates in conversation, and proclaiming as you line up with your class, “This is fun!”
Every day, we’d leave work midday to pick you up, a new afternoon routine from having you in daycare all day. You have a tough time the first few days as you navigate the newness of it all and have to become a lot more self-reliant, keeping track of your belongings and packing them up before the bell, opening the packaging to your own lunch, and remembering all the rules. You hate waking up before the sun. You worry yourself sick, wondering if we’d come pick you up. You sigh heavily when we give you yet another new instruction at the end of the day to make your school day go smoother. And yet, you constantly improve and learn to do something new.
I’m not the parent at the forefront when dropping you off and picking you up. I’m short in stature and sometimes get lost in the throng of parents. You often crane your neck to look for me, eyes roving the crowd. On the first day of school, after a long check-in process and with the students getting to wait in proximity to the parents, the teacher finally marches everyone in a single-file line to the classroom. You are among the last few kids, and as you round the corner, you turn and wave bye to me without any tears. I know the courage it takes for a shy boy to move out of his parents’ line of vision. I see you trying hard to make friends, saying hi to them, asking for their names, seeing if they’d like to play in the few minutes before and after school. I see their own shyness and awkwardness and indifference in return, often walking away from you—some with their parents and some with their own paired friends—not returning your warmth and enthusiasm. You’re not crushed by it, and you continue trying with different classmates another day. This is one of the best lessons I could hope that you’d learn: resilience from failure, determination to try anew. Even though I disappear into the background, giving you space to ask your questions and find your own way, I see you all the time. I see the silly, caring, wonderful little person you’ve become, and I’m so very proud of you.
The world is calling, my boy. As you take yet another step away from me, I hope you’ll continue to meet it with the optimism and tenacity that you’ve shown me you’re capable of.
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