Kindergarten Camp

We flew in from Minneapolis late Sunday night, bleary-eyed and covered in bug bites, still sticky from the Midwestern humidity and gloriously exhausted. We caught a shuttle to our car. Stopped for a gallon of milk on our way home. Tucked our children into bed.

Ten hours later I led my son into the gym at his new elementary school for his first day of kindergarten camp -- five mornings of getting the littles acclimated to school before the bigs show up. They have recess and music and PE and snacks. They cut and color and sing and write and share and learn where everything is. I am not remotely worried about Isaac’s kindergarten readiness, but in some ways, he is my more cautious child, the one who clings for one more hug, the one who feels a little more nervous in new situations. Suzannah was also quite shy as a five-year-old, but she preferred to just handle it herself, thank you very much. Isaac, I knew, would benefit from a gentle introduction to school where he has the chance to find his bearings a bit.

We were greeted immediately by teachers who are, now, so familiar to me. (Suzannah’s kindergarten teacher remembers me picking her up in the afternoons, wearing Isaac in the Ergo.) Isaac was given a marker and he printed his own name on his nametag. He misjudged the space a bit and had to squeeze in the second a and the c, but one of the teachers smiled and said, “That’s just perfect.”

I led him over to where the kids were lining up with their teachers. He knew I would leave for a few hours. He has an older sister at this school, so he has spent plenty of time in this space -- for concerts, for Winter Wonderland and family math nights and cultural nights.

“This is where you’ll have lunch,” Suzannah explained, putting her arm around his shoulders in a rather proprietary manner. “You also do other stuff in here, like morning assembly.”

“Oh,” said Isaac, solemn and wide-eyed. And then Suzannah ran off to give her kindergarten teacher a hug and say hello to another older sibling, a boy she knew waaaay back in first and second grade.

“How’s your summer going?” I heard her say conversationally. His mother caught my eye and winked.

I held Isaac’s tan little hand in mine. It’s so soft, still. I noted that I needed to trim his fingernails, which held little traces of sand from the lake.

“Okay, Buddy,” I said. “You’re going to stay here and have lots of fun, and I’ll be back at noon to pick you up. Okay?”

“Okay,” he said quietly. But he held my hand tightly. My heart was pounding, which surprised me a bit. The entire summer before Suzannah started kindergarten I felt perpetually on the verge of barfing, but I’ve been pretty relaxed about Isaac. We know and love this school, he’s already spent plenty of time there, I trust the teachers, and I know my son will be fine. I know this. And yet. And yet. My little boy. His little hand in mine.

I squeezed three times. It’s a code I share with my children -- when we’re walking somewhere, say, or when we’re in a crowd of people, they know that three little squeezes is how I say I love you.

Sometimes when I do this to Isaac he cackles and runs away. Sometimes he grabs my hand and crushes it as hard as he can and says, “I love you the most” in a voice that resembles Darth Vader's, and he might follow that with something like, “and I’m going to eat your eyeball.”

I. Squeeze. Love. Squeeze. You. Squeeze.

In that moment he squeezed three times back, steady and firm. I knelt down to hug him, wondering if he’d shrug me off or push me away -- sometimes that’s necessary when he’s navigating a new situation and doesn’t want to be coddled. But he wrapped his arms tightly around my neck. I kissed his cheek, still so deliciously baby soft. He turned towards me with his lips puckered and I kissed him once on those, too.

I don’t mind admitting that right about then I could have just devoured him whole. I love that little boy so much.

And then I stood up, and smiled, and said, “Have so much fun! I love you!” And I walked towards the door. I paused to call Suzannah away from all her socializing (if I’d let her go for much longer she’d have probably gone ahead and started a reading group with some of the kindergarteners or organized them into a game of some sort) and turned back to look at my son. He smiled bravely and waved.

How can my heart break and feel so full at the same time? How can I keep breathing in and out? How can I keep from floating away?

His smile when I picked him up three hours later was exactly what my mama heart needed, grounding me solidly in that moment: in the gratitude that we’re all right here, where we are, and everything is going to be okay.