It’s week two of kindergarten and the enthusiasm for all things glue stick has begun to diminish. Folders and new socks have been lost. I’ve learned that long pants aren’t acceptable for sitting “crisscross applesauce” during carpet time and that the bus schedule drop off and pick up times are not meant to be taken literally. From one day to the next, you’ll find me sprinting down the street or standing for far too long, making awkward half-caffeinated morning conversation, with the veteran parents of first and second graders. This new rung on our life ladder has us getting used to alarm clocks. Logan sleeps so peacefully, and it’s now my job to yank off his Sonic the Hedgehog sheets, push him onto the floor, and roll him down the steps onto the cold linoleum in order to force feed him cheerios. Not an easy fete when all I want to do is crawl back into bed as well. But I’m up, he’s up, we’re up, and ready to do this. Bring it on Monday.
Almost at the last minute, I remember that I have to pack his lunch. I convince myself that those aren’t the sounds of the bus chugging its way up Yellowstone Drive and that I have at least five more minutes. I grab his Lego themed lunchbox and quickly realize I forgot to empty Friday’s contents as they come spilling out in the smells of the twice baked—kindergarten cubby oven and weekend pantry crock pot. There’s a squished brown banana, half in and out of the peel, ends of red peppers, and ham sandwich scraps mashed together in a sticky pool of drink box remnants. I dump it all into the trash bin and hope he’s getting enough to eat. If he finishes his breakfast, gets dressed, with socks and shoes, and brushes his teeth, I allow him to play on the tablet for ten minutes until the bus comes. I stumbled across this little trick on day three of the first week, after watching him dress so slowly that I felt pain, actual physical pain that radiated from my neck up to my head. I was ready to yell, but I knew it would be followed by, “Why are you so mad at me, Mama? I’m just getting dressed. Like you said. Why are you so mad?” Yes, this was true, he was getting dressed, like I said, but not fast enough for this new schedule that neither of were mastering. So ten minutes of tablet time it is, and it’s worked like a charm, so far. As I scramble to put his “balanced” lunch together, he sits immersed in a world of Minecraft Zombies.
“Hey, Logan?”
Silence.
“Logan??”
Silence
“LO-GAN!?”
“What?”
“I was calling you.”
“Why do you always say my name so many times?
“Seriously? You did not just ask me that.”
“What? Yes I did. Why? What? Mama?”
He is five, and we are late, so I drop it. I know the conversation will go around and around until I forget what I wanted in the first place, so I let it go.
“Do you want one ham and cheese roll up or two?”
For as long as he can remember, I’m sure, Logan likes string cheese, wrapped in ham, on a slice bread that I pinch on all sides in order to make a little bread envelop, of sorts. It is our recipe. Our creation. He took it two days out of three last week, but I sense his hesitation now in the way his fingers stop dancing over the screen. He turns to me and then looks off to the side. There’s an expression on his face that I’ve never seen before. It’s as if he’s somewhere else, recalling something that I can’t see. I don’t have time for this though, so I try to ignore it. He turns back to me and his eyes are wide. He opens his mouth to say something, but I speak before he has a chance.
“You can’t have peanut butter and jelly every day. Let’s do every other day, okay?”
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t? I’m the mom, and I say you can.” Yes, I pull that card.
My mind goes all over. We are going to be late. It’s just a stupid lunch. Why does everything have to be so dramatic? What is this all about? Peanut butter and jelly. Peanut butter? Peanut allergies? I didn’t get anything from his teachers. Wait, did I? I look at him again and see the beginning of tears in the corners of his eyes. Those “screw the bus” instincts kick in, and I put my arms around my little boy. My baby.
“What is it, buddy?”
“I just don’t want them anymore.”
“Why not? You’ve always loved them.”
“Just. I don’t know.”
“Come on sweetie. You can tell me.”
“Because they make fun of me.”
“Who makes fun of you?”
“The six-year-old.”
“Who’s that?”
“I don’t know. He’s just six and in my class. He was laughing at my lunch. At my roll-ups.”
I pull him close to me and smell the top of his head, the way we mothers do. It smells of Johnson’s “No More Tears,” long gone jars of Gerber baby food, sunshine, sweat, broken crayons, and a million embraces just like this one. He looks up at me, and I look into those beautiful brown eyes of my newborn just home from the hospital. I can hear his giggle as he dances around the coffee table in his onesie and claps his hands to the “beatie beat beat” of “Yo Gabba Gabba.” I can hear the cry of a bumped head, shots at the doctors, toppled block towers, and scraped knees. I can feel every tear that slides down his cheeks. All Candyland defeats when compared to this new source of sadness. True sadness. Raw heartbreak. Lesson One: the world isn’t what you thought it was.
In a moment, he is fine. I finish packing his lunch, ham and cheese roll-up free. We walk down to the bus stop, and he waves to me as they pull away. All forgotten in the compromised lunch tucked away in his superhero backpack. I make the walk back to our home alone, wishing we could go back. But we just started Kindergarten, and it’s only week two.
Almost at the last minute, I remember that I have to pack his lunch. I convince myself that those aren’t the sounds of the bus chugging its way up Yellowstone Drive and that I have at least five more minutes. I grab his Lego themed lunchbox and quickly realize I forgot to empty Friday’s contents as they come spilling out in the smells of the twice baked—kindergarten cubby oven and weekend pantry crock pot. There’s a squished brown banana, half in and out of the peel, ends of red peppers, and ham sandwich scraps mashed together in a sticky pool of drink box remnants. I dump it all into the trash bin and hope he’s getting enough to eat. If he finishes his breakfast, gets dressed, with socks and shoes, and brushes his teeth, I allow him to play on the tablet for ten minutes until the bus comes. I stumbled across this little trick on day three of the first week, after watching him dress so slowly that I felt pain, actual physical pain that radiated from my neck up to my head. I was ready to yell, but I knew it would be followed by, “Why are you so mad at me, Mama? I’m just getting dressed. Like you said. Why are you so mad?” Yes, this was true, he was getting dressed, like I said, but not fast enough for this new schedule that neither of were mastering. So ten minutes of tablet time it is, and it’s worked like a charm, so far. As I scramble to put his “balanced” lunch together, he sits immersed in a world of Minecraft Zombies.
“Hey, Logan?”
Silence.
“Logan??”
Silence
“LO-GAN!?”
“What?”
“I was calling you.”
“Why do you always say my name so many times?
“Seriously? You did not just ask me that.”
“What? Yes I did. Why? What? Mama?”
He is five, and we are late, so I drop it. I know the conversation will go around and around until I forget what I wanted in the first place, so I let it go.
“Do you want one ham and cheese roll up or two?”
For as long as he can remember, I’m sure, Logan likes string cheese, wrapped in ham, on a slice bread that I pinch on all sides in order to make a little bread envelop, of sorts. It is our recipe. Our creation. He took it two days out of three last week, but I sense his hesitation now in the way his fingers stop dancing over the screen. He turns to me and then looks off to the side. There’s an expression on his face that I’ve never seen before. It’s as if he’s somewhere else, recalling something that I can’t see. I don’t have time for this though, so I try to ignore it. He turns back to me and his eyes are wide. He opens his mouth to say something, but I speak before he has a chance.
“You can’t have peanut butter and jelly every day. Let’s do every other day, okay?”
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t? I’m the mom, and I say you can.” Yes, I pull that card.
My mind goes all over. We are going to be late. It’s just a stupid lunch. Why does everything have to be so dramatic? What is this all about? Peanut butter and jelly. Peanut butter? Peanut allergies? I didn’t get anything from his teachers. Wait, did I? I look at him again and see the beginning of tears in the corners of his eyes. Those “screw the bus” instincts kick in, and I put my arms around my little boy. My baby.
“What is it, buddy?”
“I just don’t want them anymore.”
“Why not? You’ve always loved them.”
“Just. I don’t know.”
“Come on sweetie. You can tell me.”
“Because they make fun of me.”
“Who makes fun of you?”
“The six-year-old.”
“Who’s that?”
“I don’t know. He’s just six and in my class. He was laughing at my lunch. At my roll-ups.”
I pull him close to me and smell the top of his head, the way we mothers do. It smells of Johnson’s “No More Tears,” long gone jars of Gerber baby food, sunshine, sweat, broken crayons, and a million embraces just like this one. He looks up at me, and I look into those beautiful brown eyes of my newborn just home from the hospital. I can hear his giggle as he dances around the coffee table in his onesie and claps his hands to the “beatie beat beat” of “Yo Gabba Gabba.” I can hear the cry of a bumped head, shots at the doctors, toppled block towers, and scraped knees. I can feel every tear that slides down his cheeks. All Candyland defeats when compared to this new source of sadness. True sadness. Raw heartbreak. Lesson One: the world isn’t what you thought it was.
In a moment, he is fine. I finish packing his lunch, ham and cheese roll-up free. We walk down to the bus stop, and he waves to me as they pull away. All forgotten in the compromised lunch tucked away in his superhero backpack. I make the walk back to our home alone, wishing we could go back. But we just started Kindergarten, and it’s only week two.