Almost every morning my heart is broken. OK, five days a week to be exact. For almost all of last year and so far this year too, dropping my 3-year-old son off at school is a tragic affair, unequaled in torment and misery–until the next day. It reminds me of Prometheus’ punishment for stealing fire from Zeus, but why I deserve this public flailing I’m not so sure.
The sweet little girl who also had a tough time parting from her mama now runs off to play with her friends. The other boy who clung to his father’s neck now runs from him at break neck speed to join everyone at the breakfast table. Long after all the other kids have adjusted to daily day care drop-off, there is my son, clinging to me, crying, nuzzling into my neck; covering me in snot and tears, pleading desperately, “No mama, don’t go. No mama! NO MAMMMMMMAAAAAAA!” Yes, we are the scene makers; the ones the others parents stare at, glad they are not us. The teachers look at me like I am the cause of the problem.
Sigh. Go ahead, judge me. At least we steal every scene we make. Read the rest of this entry →