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Sparkle (1)
I'd had the form on my kitchen counter for two days. It stared back at me,blank, a grid of faded gray lines and unanswered questions.In the morning quiet I took it to the table where the light spilled yellow.
The night before we'd talked it over, gone round and round and back again. By then, in the low hum of mid-morning, the decision had been made. My four year old would not go on to Kindergarten next year with the others his age. He'll stay in the sweet cocoon of preschool for one more year, to build block towers and write his name. To play. To be a child, with no expectation of sitting still in sterile rooms before he's ready.
As parents, it was one of the hardest decisions we'd made, and one that potentially affected every area of his life. His friends. Classmates. The academic distance between his brother and sister. Would Kindergarten bore him at six? Were we making the right choice?
The preschool application needed my attention. I filled out the sections one by one, as I'd done every year. There were the basics: our contact information, emergency telephone numbers. Heath status. Allergies? Did he have a history of any of these medical conditions, listed nonchalantly in three rows?
But when I got to the bottom of the third page, suddenly the answers weren't so easy to provide. Any fears? Jealousy? What, in particular, was he interested in?
And finally, the question that felt more like an an entrance-exam essay to a school where I didn't stand a chance of acceptance: Is there any other information you wish to share with us about your child?
The four lines and I had a battle of wills. A stand-off. I had barricaded myself into my mind. I was pacing its floors. Outside the sirens blared, a crowd gathered. I saw the lights flashing, and suddenly a voice: Come out with your hands up.
I surrendered.
What I wanted to share was this: My child is funny. He's smart. Strong-willed, intense. The day he was born, my life changed forever. I'd waited for him, prayed for him, faced the fear that he'd never come. There were mornings with thermometers and militant charting. There was miscarriage and misinformation and tears and expectation. But finally, there was a baby in my arms and at my breast, a baby who cried without stopping for eleven weeks straight. There was bouncing on yoga balls and swaddling and walking the floor at night. There were bundt cakes and irrational thoughts and a minefield of anxiety triggers. There were first words and first steps and teeth that came in screaming. There were four a.m. fevers and sick days and worry. There were too many questions and a love too big for my heart to hold. My child is on his own path. He stands apart. I see him in the future, see him making the right choices, I see him struggling with needing it all to go his way. I see him learning lessons and leading people. I see him. I hope you do, too.
