We drove to our first day of preschool this morning on a dirt road, stuck behind a tractor, going one mile an hour. It kicked rocks and mud back at my van and trees blocked the sun. We would be late.
My little Sawyer, my baby, kept saying, “I see the light at the end of the road, I see the light at the end of the road.” I should have said I see it too but I didn’t.
I have been feeling sorry for myself, moping over my youngest beginning school, fretting about moments passing too quickly and lost days of baby-wearing and toddling legs. I have considered crying in my coffee and telling my son preschool has closed and I have greeted this new phase by trying to slam the door in its face.
Reluctantly I changed little boy jammies into big boy school clothes. I snapped pictures and directed hand waves and back pack turns and got lost in the Mommy Moments of it all. My kids, the living ones, are living. They are running and smiling and holding my leg tight as we pile into preschool and offering a cheek to kiss as I turn to go and looking back so I kiss them again and living some more.
Living like I prayed and willed and bargained for them to do when they were struggling for words
or breathing through tubes
or weighing two pounds
or staying just one. more. day. in my pregnant belly.
The light’s not at the end of the road, it’s dancing in front of my eyes,
whispering in my ear when I need her most.
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