One of the delightful surprises of being a parent has been the familiar yet intimate sounds of our home in the morning—the grating click of the alarm clock and the distant strains of pop music echoing down the hallway. The cats racing up the stairs, leaping over toys and onto beds, the soft rustle of sheets as the first feet shuffle toward the bathroom—all of this culminates in a gentle greeting of “I’m awake, Mom.” Regardless of the challenges that lie ahead, this morning soundtrack lingers in my mind.
It was a Tuesday following a long weekend. The night before, the kids had taken baths, changed their sheets, and packed their backpacks, all in anticipation of a smooth morning. I felt a warm smile spread across my face as the day began.
Little Clara approached me, the hood of her beloved footie pajamas pulled over her head, her turquoise ears flopping as she nestled against my chest and whispered, “Good morning, Mama.” I rubbed her back through the soft fleece and told her how much I loved her. The older children took their time, their preteen faces a mix of sleepiness and mild irritation; eventually, they emerged, mostly in good spirits.
We prepared lunches in a relay-style fashion before Sarah curled up with a book and Lily entertained herself with an iPad, while Clara filled her water bottle and unfastened her shoes. I admired her determination; despite being the youngest and occasionally playing the “baby” card, she didn’t hesitate when it came to preparing for school. She was always the first to step out the door, and questions like, “Did you pack your lunch?” were met with a confident “Yes.”
This year has brought me to the realization that I cannot save them. Carrying forgotten items does not foster their independence. While I can’t say I find pleasure in telling them, “Perhaps next time you’ll remember,” I’ve embraced it. They’ve been forgetting less, so I consider that a sign of progress.
The focus on responsibility has opened up new dialogues; now the kids share more about their school experiences, from discussions on the dangers of drugs to the necessity of lockdown drills. My middle daughter explained the situation with cubbies at school: “We don’t have enough for everyone, so I have to share. But I get to my cubby first, which is good, even though sometimes I get pushed and can’t breathe. If there was a shooter, I wouldn’t be in front.”
I strive to maintain my composure during these discussions, not wanting to instill any additional fear. I realize I can’t be in the classroom or hallway, influencing their actions in the moments that matter. “Oh,” I said, “it’s good that you know the plan.” Clara then chimed in, “In my class, we have spots to hide, and we know not to breathe or sniffle, which is challenging because when my nose runs or I feel a cough coming, I need to let it out. But I promise I won’t.” I nodded, trying to smile. These conversations ground me and affect how I respond to their requests to stay home.
With ten minutes left before we needed to leave, Clara said, “I wish I could play hooky.”
“Why?” I asked.
She shrugged, “I don’t know. I just would like to.” Her blue eyes searched mine for a sign of weakness.
“Not today. It’s a school day, and it’s a short week. You have to go.” She darted off to grab her coat.
The air was biting as we waited for the bus, and she reiterated, “I still wish I could play hooky.”
I gazed down the street for the bus, suddenly reminded of waiting for the bus on that fateful day in Newtown. I turned back to Clara, scanning her face for any hint of intuition about school safety.
I had no meetings, no pressing tasks, and planned to be home early to meet them at the bus stop instead of having them brave the cold winds alone. I longed to scoop Clara up in my arms and keep her safe all day. But I hesitated.
“Not today. We’ll have our time in April when we visit Grandma. Today, you’ll go to school, see your friends, learn new things, and tonight we can cuddle while you tell me about your day. I can drive you if you would like.”
She smiled, “No, I like the bus.”
“I like you,” I replied.
She giggled and launched herself across the icy pavement towards the approaching bus. My heart skipped a beat. I didn’t shout “I love you,” knowing she carefully separates my affection from her peers’ perceptions. I waited in the car, tears welling, as I watched her settle in, using her sleeve to wipe the fog from the window.
She caught my eye and mouthed, “I love you.” I responded, my voice quivering, “I love you too.” Alone in the car as the bus’s tail lights disappeared, I took a deep breath, replaying the sounds of our morning and her desire to stay home, questioning whether I was making the right choice.
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Summary
This article reflects on the bittersweet moments of parenting, highlighting the daily routines, conversations about school safety, and the emotional challenges of letting go. It underscores the importance of fostering independence while balancing the need to protect children.