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Dear son,
There are moments in parents’ lives that are etched in their minds forever. Today is one of those days for me. It’s your first day of kindergarten, and while I know you are going to be okay, I’m not sure that I am.
Five and a half years ago, I made the decision to stay home with you. My goals were to foster your growth, both emotionally and mentally; to equip you with the skills you need to enter kindergarten; to fill your heart with love and your mind with confidence; and to build a good, kind kid. It was up to me to teach you all these things.
The reality? I had a lot more learning to do than you, and I had the best teacher. I had you.
Of course there are universal things that nearly every parent learns: patience, flexibility, a new concept of time, how to sneak veggies into meals, the distance pee travels, and so on. Those are a given. What you taught me was more, so much more, than any week-by-week child development email or what to expect book could ever predict.
Because of you, I tapped into a side of me that’s been dormant for too long. I opened my eyes to your world of make-believe, and in it, I found my own creative niche. The imagination is a powerful tool (except when you work in Finance, as I did, where imaginary numbers are frowned upon). Your imagination blows my mind, whether you are trying to create electricity with blue masking tape, a fire truck out of a canvas bin and paper, vacuums from plastic containers and paper towel rolls, or a clean-o-matic from a cardboard box and light switch.
As I watched you play and find your passions, I fell in love with more than just the face of a little boy whose cheeks I thumbed gently at night while we sang Twinkle and Lullaby. Your passions were unlike those of most children your age. While other toddlers were stacking blocks, you were trying to plug the crock pot into the toy chest. Instead of playing
kickball on the grass, you preferred to push your daddy’s lawnmower and edger across the driveway. There were obsessions that ranged from scrub brushes to vacuums to tornadoes. Nothing about your play was “typical”, and because of that, I was able to gain a strong sense of who you are and appreciate your individuality. I love your mind, the way I can see the wheels turn and share in your excitement. You taught me that there is no one-size-fits-all approach to life – and that’s a good thing. I hope you always embrace your uniqueness; it’s what makes you perfectly you.
Of course it hasn’t always been fun and games all the time. I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve had (and will still have) plenty
of parenting fails. There are days I fly off the handle over the stupidest, most insignificant things – so insignificant, in fact, that I can’t even recall those reasons. My outbursts have rivaled - even outdone at times- those of a two year old. I’m not proud of them. And in the aftermath, as I tuck my proverbial tail between my legs and apologize, you look at me through those innocent and yet wise-beyond-their-years blue eyes. A single dimple marks your right cheek. One smile says it all. You have every reason to be disgusted by my behavior, and yet you aren’t. You willingly oblige me with hugs and cuddles as we break for a story. You’ve taught me the power of forgiveness, the amazing strength of unconditional love and the meaning of grace.
You have an amazing heart. The love and grace you have shown your family (both real and imaginary) also carries with it some vulnerability. Tears come easily to you. And you know what? Tears can be good. Our society has this notion that crying in a man signals weakness. We try to toughen up young boys, putting them in tackle football at the age of six to teach them that life isn’t fair and telling them to “shake it off” when they encounter pain. We want them to bottle up their sorrow, their fears, the hurt…but that shouldn’t always be the case. There is a time and a place for tears. As I watch you mature, I realize that you are learning that. Without me even telling you, you just know. I watch you try to be brave and hold back the tears that are made of fear. I also see you when you are hurting or pushed beyond your limits, the way tears flow freely as soon as you are in my arms, the place where you are safest. Your vulnerability has softened me and encouraged me to strive for something so few people have: the heart of Christ. Did you know the shortest verse in the Bible is “Jesus wept.” Yes, even Jesus cried. Please don’t ever, ever let pain harden your heart.
Speaking of crying, I am sitting at home, staring at the clock, wondering how many times you’ve teared up. Because I know you have. That’s how much I know you, how deep our bond has become. How many times have you asked your teacher the time? All summer you have tried to prepare yourself for this, trying to get a sense of how long we would be apart, asking if you would still be in school and if so, for how many hours. I’ve watched your body go rigid as I’ve done something as simple as leave you with Daddy while I go to the grocery store. I’ve obliged you when you wanted to go with me to the doctor rather than stay home with Grandma because you “just wanted to be with Mommy”. I’ve known the separation would be the hardest part of the day for you.
What I didn’t know is how hard it would be for me, how many times I would cry as I pictured your face. Your upper lip disappears when you smile. Can anyone see it right now? Or are you biting your bottom lip as you try to stay strong? My eyes get moist when I think of your little hands, which aren’t so little for a boy your age. I want to feel them clasped around me, even if they leave sticky bits of dirt all over my shirt. Maybe right now those hands are gripping a marker or a crayon.
Friends and family have been offering me their condolences, saying they are sorry that today is so rough for the two of us. But here’s what I am realizing. I don’t need anyone’s sympathy because there is nothing wrong. There is nothing wrong with a young boy (despite the fact that you are now officially in school, you are still a young boy) getting a little teary-eyed when his mommy leaves. In fact, I’d say it’s the opposite. The fact that you want to be with me means that I’ve done one of the most important jobs as your mother: to make you feel loved and safe.
You are only five years old. Five years old. I don’t expect you to have the confidence to tackle the world at this age, or even to run enthusiastically into a room full of strangers. It’s okay to be scared, guarded, hesitant, or even to get a little homesick.
You won’t hate school. I haven’t even seen you since I dropped you off, but I know for a fact that you will love school. You are curious, bright and a good listener. You thrive on structure, follow rules and treat your peers and your leaders with respect. You have a passion for learning, and now it is time for someone other than me to share in the teaching.
I’m not finished teaching you, though. Nor are you finished teaching me. I am grateful, more than I could ever say in a letter, for the time we’ve had together. Thank you for growing my mind, my soul, my character, and most importantly, my heart. I love you.
Mommy
There are moments in parents’ lives that are etched in their minds forever. Today is one of those days for me. It’s your first day of kindergarten, and while I know you are going to be okay, I’m not sure that I am.
Five and a half years ago, I made the decision to stay home with you. My goals were to foster your growth, both emotionally and mentally; to equip you with the skills you need to enter kindergarten; to fill your heart with love and your mind with confidence; and to build a good, kind kid. It was up to me to teach you all these things.
The reality? I had a lot more learning to do than you, and I had the best teacher. I had you.
Of course there are universal things that nearly every parent learns: patience, flexibility, a new concept of time, how to sneak veggies into meals, the distance pee travels, and so on. Those are a given. What you taught me was more, so much more, than any week-by-week child development email or what to expect book could ever predict.
Because of you, I tapped into a side of me that’s been dormant for too long. I opened my eyes to your world of make-believe, and in it, I found my own creative niche. The imagination is a powerful tool (except when you work in Finance, as I did, where imaginary numbers are frowned upon). Your imagination blows my mind, whether you are trying to create electricity with blue masking tape, a fire truck out of a canvas bin and paper, vacuums from plastic containers and paper towel rolls, or a clean-o-matic from a cardboard box and light switch.
As I watched you play and find your passions, I fell in love with more than just the face of a little boy whose cheeks I thumbed gently at night while we sang Twinkle and Lullaby. Your passions were unlike those of most children your age. While other toddlers were stacking blocks, you were trying to plug the crock pot into the toy chest. Instead of playing
kickball on the grass, you preferred to push your daddy’s lawnmower and edger across the driveway. There were obsessions that ranged from scrub brushes to vacuums to tornadoes. Nothing about your play was “typical”, and because of that, I was able to gain a strong sense of who you are and appreciate your individuality. I love your mind, the way I can see the wheels turn and share in your excitement. You taught me that there is no one-size-fits-all approach to life – and that’s a good thing. I hope you always embrace your uniqueness; it’s what makes you perfectly you.
Of course it hasn’t always been fun and games all the time. I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve had (and will still have) plenty
of parenting fails. There are days I fly off the handle over the stupidest, most insignificant things – so insignificant, in fact, that I can’t even recall those reasons. My outbursts have rivaled - even outdone at times- those of a two year old. I’m not proud of them. And in the aftermath, as I tuck my proverbial tail between my legs and apologize, you look at me through those innocent and yet wise-beyond-their-years blue eyes. A single dimple marks your right cheek. One smile says it all. You have every reason to be disgusted by my behavior, and yet you aren’t. You willingly oblige me with hugs and cuddles as we break for a story. You’ve taught me the power of forgiveness, the amazing strength of unconditional love and the meaning of grace.
You have an amazing heart. The love and grace you have shown your family (both real and imaginary) also carries with it some vulnerability. Tears come easily to you. And you know what? Tears can be good. Our society has this notion that crying in a man signals weakness. We try to toughen up young boys, putting them in tackle football at the age of six to teach them that life isn’t fair and telling them to “shake it off” when they encounter pain. We want them to bottle up their sorrow, their fears, the hurt…but that shouldn’t always be the case. There is a time and a place for tears. As I watch you mature, I realize that you are learning that. Without me even telling you, you just know. I watch you try to be brave and hold back the tears that are made of fear. I also see you when you are hurting or pushed beyond your limits, the way tears flow freely as soon as you are in my arms, the place where you are safest. Your vulnerability has softened me and encouraged me to strive for something so few people have: the heart of Christ. Did you know the shortest verse in the Bible is “Jesus wept.” Yes, even Jesus cried. Please don’t ever, ever let pain harden your heart.
Speaking of crying, I am sitting at home, staring at the clock, wondering how many times you’ve teared up. Because I know you have. That’s how much I know you, how deep our bond has become. How many times have you asked your teacher the time? All summer you have tried to prepare yourself for this, trying to get a sense of how long we would be apart, asking if you would still be in school and if so, for how many hours. I’ve watched your body go rigid as I’ve done something as simple as leave you with Daddy while I go to the grocery store. I’ve obliged you when you wanted to go with me to the doctor rather than stay home with Grandma because you “just wanted to be with Mommy”. I’ve known the separation would be the hardest part of the day for you.
What I didn’t know is how hard it would be for me, how many times I would cry as I pictured your face. Your upper lip disappears when you smile. Can anyone see it right now? Or are you biting your bottom lip as you try to stay strong? My eyes get moist when I think of your little hands, which aren’t so little for a boy your age. I want to feel them clasped around me, even if they leave sticky bits of dirt all over my shirt. Maybe right now those hands are gripping a marker or a crayon.
Friends and family have been offering me their condolences, saying they are sorry that today is so rough for the two of us. But here’s what I am realizing. I don’t need anyone’s sympathy because there is nothing wrong. There is nothing wrong with a young boy (despite the fact that you are now officially in school, you are still a young boy) getting a little teary-eyed when his mommy leaves. In fact, I’d say it’s the opposite. The fact that you want to be with me means that I’ve done one of the most important jobs as your mother: to make you feel loved and safe.
You are only five years old. Five years old. I don’t expect you to have the confidence to tackle the world at this age, or even to run enthusiastically into a room full of strangers. It’s okay to be scared, guarded, hesitant, or even to get a little homesick.
You won’t hate school. I haven’t even seen you since I dropped you off, but I know for a fact that you will love school. You are curious, bright and a good listener. You thrive on structure, follow rules and treat your peers and your leaders with respect. You have a passion for learning, and now it is time for someone other than me to share in the teaching.
I’m not finished teaching you, though. Nor are you finished teaching me. I am grateful, more than I could ever say in a letter, for the time we’ve had together. Thank you for growing my mind, my soul, my character, and most importantly, my heart. I love you.
Mommy