It’s Not About Me

These are the words that repeatedly passed through my mind in the days leading up to the first day of school:  it’s not about me.  When I found myself lingering on thoughts that would undoubtedly lead to that familiar lump in my throat, I swallowed hard and repeated my mantra. . . it’s not about you. 
If I’m being completely honest here (and I am) it feels like it’s about me.  Or, at least, it should be.  These are my kids.  It was my eyes that first met theirs with their first breath of life.  It was my chest that they rested on as their eyes adjusted to the outside world.  It is my heart that seems to roam wherever they go. 

Shouldn’t it be about me?  What do you mean I have to send them off. . . like, without me? 

Enter rational mind:  Summer, it’s not about you.  This is good for them. 

So we did it.  We we sent them off to school, one by one, first Chanelle then Charlie.

Chanelle began her second year of preschool.  My chill little girl seemed, well, chill. . .

Apparently, preschool is no big deal for my 4-year old.  It seems nothing really phases her.  She went in with a “bring it on” attitude.

During our 35 minute commute, I did everything I could to keep the conversation moving so to avoid idle time in my own mind.  This is my fourth year dropping a child off to this pre-school and each year I have improved my exit.  Year one I almost had to run out of the building in order to hide my tears from Charlie.  (Really, the director of the school called me later to see if I was okay and to ask if I planned to replace the three boxes of Kleenex I used upon my exit. . . okay, I made that second part up–it was just one box)  Apparently, I have no pride. 

Anyway, Chanelle was not phased by preschool and that just makes everything so much easier. . .

She released my hand and walked onto the playground without looking back and my heart was immediately calmed.  As Charlie, Meadow and I pulled away from her school I turned and looked at Charlie like a proud child. . . for the first time I didn’t cry!  Perhaps it helped to know that I was about to enjoy a three hour date with my boy (and Meadow) while we waited for the clock to strike noon signaling the time for Chanelle’s pick up. 

Charlie and I had previously discussed how he wanted to spend our morning.  I let him take the lead and I’m sure glad I did.  Turns out my boy knows how to show a girl a good time.

After a quick breakfast, Charlie directed me to a farm that my in-laws frequent with the kids.  I had never been there and was pleasantly surprised by the adventure that awaited us. 

Goats walking on roofs, steer with huge horns laying in hay, chicks scampering about, turkeys, roosters and chickens roamed everywhere.  Puppies waiting to be held and pigs staring, just daring you to take another step.  Seriously, I’d never seen anything like it.  A turkey pecked at Charlie’s head, sheep sniffed Meadow’s tiny toes, oh and the horses. . .

. . . and the HORSES. . .

This is the largest beast I’ve ever seen.  3000 lbs?!

I could not get enough of this place and the glee on Charlie’s face was the icing on the cake.  Over and over he commented, you really like this, don’t you?  You didn’t think you would. . .

We moseyed around this place for what seemed like minutes, but was really almost two hours when I got a call from Chanelle’s school. . .

Chanelle has a fever. 

Yep, I am that mom that sent her daughter to school sick.  My date with Charlie was cut short and within minutes of picking her up my feverish girl was fast asleep. 

The next day was Charlie’s day.  First grade. . .

First grade brings with it a “first” for us.  For the first time Charlie will be gone all day everyday.  Last year seemed doable–two (sometimes three) full days was okay. . . but all day every day. . . this is stretching us. 

It’s not about me.  It’s not about me.  We watch as Charlie gets on the bus.  We were all there, waiting and watching and. . .

. . . at least for me, swallowing hard the egg-sized lump in my throat.  I’m not sure if its the first born thing, or the fact that this is the first time he will be gone so much, or that he tends to be a bit more sensitive like his Mama. . . but watching him get on that bus was tough.  I spent the day glancing at the clock and wondering. . . what is he doing now?  Did he eat enough at lunch?  Is he doing okay? I could hardly wait to greet him as he got off the bus.  I wasn’t the only one. . .

Once again we were all there waiting. 

 

As I watched him climb down the stairs of that big yellow bus, I felt a sensation of relief like I’d been holding my breath all day long and finally let it go. 

Ah, letting go.  From day one this has been a struggle for me.  Wanting to hold on, fighting against change, longing to keep them close.  This letting go thing wages a war against everything that comes natural to me.  They are mine. . . I don’t have to let go.  Inevitably, though,  something happens that reminds me that it really is not about me.  It’s not about me at all.  This week the reminder came by way of the letter “K”.  Chanelle was practicing writing her K’s when finally she did the best K I ever did!

She looked at her K proudly and stood tall as she carried her little piece of paper around to show anyone who would pay attention.  She had accomplished something and she was proud.

Watching her celebrate her K reminded me how important it is to let them go. As much as I want to keep them close and resist change I know that nothing compares with the feeling of learning and growing and understanding something on your own.  There is nothing like growing in confidence and competence.   There is nothing like knowing I can do this.

And as much as it hurts at times to get them go I would never want to steal from them their understanding that, truly, they can do it.  So I took another step back this week.  It was a small step, I know, but a step, nonetheless.  One thing they can count on, though, is that no matter what I will always be within arms reach.

All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on.
-Havelock Ellis