“So, is he ready to get on the bus?” my friend asked, knowing my son is starting kindergarten. “And, more importantly, are you?”
“He sure is, but last I checked, I’m not getting on the bus!” I laughed, fully aware of her meaning but not quite prepared to answer. What she meant, of course, was, am I ready for my son to get on the bus? And, of course, I’m not.
I don’t know what it is about the simple act of climbing those steps, but the mere thought of it induces an almost physical ache in my heart. Maybe it’s because the first bus ride is somehow symbolic of growing up, and despite the giddy anticipation with which I have envisioned my children heading off to kindergarten, the truth is that, like many parents, I’m simply not ready to let him go.
Or, more likely, I’m not ready to stop protecting him. Once he steps on that bus, I can no longer pretend for him that there is no bad in the world.
This little guy has been sheltered from birth. I’ve essentially censored what he watched and what he heard, so that nothing scary or profane pierced that fragile shell of innocence. I’ve been committed to providing my son with a childhood in which love, safety, security and respect were unconditional and unqualified; a childhood in which happiness is the norm and hurt the exception.
All of these thoughts were swirling around my head recently when I took my son to our local daily recreation program. We were late getting there. He signed in, took his little lunchbox to the area reserved for the younger kids, gave me a quick peck on the cheek, and was gone, off to the playground in search of a friend. For some reason I held back, watching.
He climbed the rope ladder, went down the slide, and stood there, looking around. His closest friend, I remembered, had left for vacation and wouldn’t be there, but he didn’t know this. And because we were late, little groups had already formed in the different areas of the playground.
Unaware of my presence, he looked from group to group for a familiar face, while my heart started splintering with each passing second at the thought of him being excluded.
My son is a nice little boy. He is empathic, and considerate, and very sensitive, and in my experience, this translates into a person who is hurt easily. I realize that a certain amount of pain builds character and is a part of life, but as he stood there that morning, surveying the clusters of children that had already formed, I wanted to run over, take his hand, and bring him home. Of course I knew I couldn’t.
And as I watched, a little boy stood up from the sandbox, walked over to my son, and handed him a shovel. The boy then went to get himself another tool, and they both sat down in the sandbox and started digging.
Frozen in my spot on the path, I exhaled and realized I hadn’t taken a breath throughout the entire scene. The relief that swept over me was so dramatic that I almost wept, and that reaction led me to conclude that something else was going on.
And suddenly I knew what it was.
I wasn’t watching him on that playground looking for a friend . . . I was watching me, or at least the little girl I once was. My heart was breaking because I knew the pain of being excluded, of being on the fringe, of being the last picked in gym. I knew the anxiety of being on the outside, of constantly questioning my self-worth. I knew the fear of climbing those steps to the bus and wondering what nightmare awaited me that day.
Being hurt – being excluded – being an outsider . . . I thought those were my fears for my son. But as I watched him with his new playmate, I have to admit I didn’t see any of the self-doubt or insecurity that was so consuming in myself. Those fears, then, aren’t for him. Those fears are for me, that little girl, because that was my life.
The painful experiences of my childhood, dulled over the years, made me the person – and the mother – I am today. But I have to stop projecting them onto my son, because my experience will never be his. I’ve worked on myself for a long, long time to ensure that very truth. Now, however, I have to let him have his own.
Since the day he was born my husband and I have been getting ready for this moment. We’ve made him feel safe, secure, and loved. In all his young life he has had not one reason to doubt our faith in him, not one reason to feel ashamed, not one reason to wonder if he’s worthwhile. And it shows. He wasn’t panicking that day at the playground; I was. He was just standing there looking for a friend.
I made a joke of it, but there’s some truth there after all. I’m not getting on that bus. My son is. And yes . . . we’re ready.