First

Zachary tucks his small hand in mine as we walk towards his elementary school for orientation. He stands with his back against me; waits patiently in the alcove with dozens of other incoming first graders and their nervous parents. He allows me to encircle his shoulders with my arms. He plays with the thin jade bracelet on my left wrist. He lays the back of his dark head on my chest.

He is quiet; he chews on the neck of the soft gray t-shirt he is wearing.

His exuberance and curiosity resurface as we explore his colorful classroom. He exclaims and smiles when he discovers old favorite books in the class library. He hugs his teacher. Tests his chair.

The following morning, I beat my alarm by at least 20 minutes. In just over 2 hours Zachary is to board the bus for first grade for the first time.

I wash my face and brush my teeth.

I shrug on a dress and sweep my hair back into a ponytail.

I walk downstairs to the silent kitchen and pour a mug of coffee. I turn on some quiet piano solos and make Zachary’s lunch. I pack items I know he enjoys. I focus on things that will fill him up, but that he can eat quickly and while distracted. Pretzels. Hummus. Cheese. Soft Bread. A ripe peach.

I hear his bare feet on the hardwoods at twenty past six. I scoop him up (he lets me) and we snuggle on the couch. He holds Puppy 1 (his favorite worn stuffed animal) and I reach under his pajama shirt and tickle his back. I can smell his morning breath. I talk to him a bit as he wakes.

I share with him a secret that I happen to know: teachers get nervous, too.

I turn my head away and push down powerful tears and emotions. I find my steadiest voice and assure him that he will be in his special room in my heart’s heart all day. That if he feels unsure, he can turn thoughts to me and know, with unwavering confidence, that I am standing tall and holding him close.

He asks if I have butterflies in my stomach.

I tell him I do.

He tells me he does, too.

I purposely end our time a few moments after that; set my sights on bucking him up and getting him ready. I send him upstairs to pee and brush teeth and get dressed. I toast him a waffle. Cut it into three strips. Give him permission to zone on the couch as he eats.

He is bouncing and smiling and ready by 7:30 (his bus comes at 7:58). I suggest a photo shoot in the front hallway. He complies. Zoe, and her prize winning bed-head, joins us. We walk out the front door. My boy, wearing a backpack twice the width of his little back, sprints ahead of me down the front path. We start towards the end of the driveway.

The sun is out. I step off of the porch and see three hot air balloons flying overhead. I point them out to everyone. The children excitedly reach their hands to try and catch them (a tradition of ours).

By the time we reach the end of the driveway, Zachary’s friend is walking towards the bus stop as well. Zachary has not a sliver of nervousness.

His feet dance in navy crocs.

His knees twist and shake in crooked circles.

He is movement and joy and life.

We wait.

Then, it comes. In slow motion. The image I have seen in my head since I realized my boy would one day grow up: The yellow school bus turns onto the street.

It is the sound of children.

It is the rumble of motor.

It is a moving container of most precious cargo.

The bus rounds the corner. Slows. Stops.

Zachary and his friend walk up the stairs with not a moment’s hesitation. I quickly introduce myself to the bus driver. I tell her to take good care of my son. To be safe.

She smiles.

Tells me it will get easier.

I wave to Zachary as the bus drives away.

And.

Like that.

He is no longer a baby.

He is no longer under my watch. I am no longer holding him safely in my gaze.

He is responsible for learning. For self advocacy. For making friends and fighting battles.

Finding a seat.

Finding a friend.

Finding his way.

I cry, of course.

I walk towards the house.

I look up at the sky and send a powerful thought his way.

I know he feels my love.

Later that afternoon when the bus returns and the doors open, Zachary leaps down the stairs and deftly avoids my arms. He tells me: grown ups don’t need hugs!  

Zach has come back a bit more self assured.

I sling his backpack over my shoulder and follow his little frame down the driveway.

I smile.

It is a day of firsts.