The Last First Day
I walked the kids to the front door of the school on their last first day. Instead of clinging to me, like they did five years ago when they started Kindergarten, I was clinging to them, begging them to slow down. My heart felt like it was being tugged through a pinhole, squeezed.
I know the otherwise — I know the otherwise all too well — and I know I am lucky to have older kids. But, please, that is cold comfort.
It hurts so much to watch them walk into the school; to watch them walk away. Because that is what this is about; these first day of school tears.
It’s the fact that parenting is being in a state of constant reminders that these people you love desperately are moving away from you.
They are like the universe, in a constant state of expansion, pulling apart. It’s incremental, barely noticeable until you look up one day, on a last first day, and realize how far they’ve travelled from you.
So I’m sad. I am selfish; I just want them home with me. Close. I feel like a Disney witch, one with long, claw-like fingers and pointy nails, trying to suck them back toward me with magic. It makes me feel ugly inside when I feel so much grief looking at their grinning faces as they cross over the threshold, eager to get where they’re going.