We last left our heroine lamenting her booblessness and vowing to harm the shins of unsuspecting, well endowed upon the chest women. Both of Z’s teachers are fully equipped with what appear to be comfy chest pillows. I wouldn’t know, because some people seem to frown upon having their breasts snuggled by grown women. These women kill me with their holier than thouness.
His teacher and assistant teacher were nice enough to answer all of my questions and give a bit of a glimpse into how the classroom is run. The boy barely acknowledged them as he made a beeline to the library’s computer. When asked what he likes to do, all we could do was look to the left. If there is a computer in the classroom, OH PWAAHAHAHAHA! I FEEL FOR YOU-OO (please sing it like Chaka; it’s the only way it works).
I have to admit I was immediately put at ease by them. I think my sadness in the previous post was more anticipation than reality. I would be fine the following day, his first day. I would be fine.
I was not fine.
He was a bit clingy. I tried to stay upbeat, happy. But I think he sensed the smallest amount of apprehension on my part and flung it back into my face with “I want to go HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOME!” I left my crying baby in a classroom of semi-strangers, surrounded by non-crying little robots who were probably wondering what the hell his deal was. I left my husband to walk him to the circle and then I made my exit. I know I probably shouldn’t have simply disappeared because he looked up and I was just gone, but had I stuck around I would have never left. Believe me. Instead, I stood outside the door and listened to him cry. My husband came out and looked at me like “What? He’ll be fine in a few minutes.” It was all I could do not to perform an Oscar-worthy wall slide to the floor.
I walked slowly behind him (very slowly because he was in the car, seatbelt on, and I was still five cars away). I went to work where I would wring my hands and wonder about my preshus for the next several hours. I did not, however, call my husband after having estimated how long it would take him to get both kids out of the school and secure them in the car. I waited. I forced myself to get the first day report after we were all home. And wouldn’t you know it? The boy cried for all of 20 minutes and the rest of the day was a breeze. Lunch was great. Nap was wonderful. Recess was splendid. He did not cry again until it was time to leave. Yes!
“Oh, he was sad to leave? He did have a good day!”
“Not exactly. He was the only one without a backpack and when he realized he had no bag he flipped out.”
WOMP WOMP WOMP. Fuck this guide-bookless life! Mother of the year right here, y’all. RIGHT DAMN HERE.
* * * * * * * * * *
Fast forward through the weekend filled of talking about school, ironing uniforms, talking about school, securing one tiny backpack (“I need my bag! My bag on my shoulders! Let’s get my bag!”), and talking about school. He was as prepared for his return today as we could get him. Again, he cried. I’m glad I wasn’t there. It hurts to hear my husband say he cried, but it hurts more to actually hear his wails. Hopefully today was like Thursday and the tears didn’t last long. Hopefully this period of morning sadness won’t last long. I know it’s only his second day but it would go so much better for ME if he were happier about it all.
So there. I survived, he’s surviving. Gloria Gaynor would be proud.
This is him excited about balls. Such a boy.