Kiss me! No, never again!

Yesterday was Junior's last day of kindergarten. It's been a long year, full of lopsided attempts at writing and sentences that made me laugh out loud. The teacher was big on having the children keep a journal and sound out their words, so I saw a lot of stuff like "brte" (birthday), "prizit" (present) and my favorite, "My gremee is heer."

So endearing. And yet so visually atrocious.

The year was also full of bus strife, which I'm happy to see end. Junior shared a seat with two girls, also kindergartners, who were merciless in accusing him of having morning breath.

(I can just imagine the morning conversations these girls must have overheard between their parents:

Mother: "Kiss me, darling!"

Father: "No! Your breath is rancid!"

Mother: "Don't you love me?"

Father: "Yes, but your morning breath makes me want to vomit! I'm leaving you."

Or something along those lines.)

Junior was heartbroken over it: "Mom, I'm such a nice guy! And I brush my teeth! And I don't have any cavities! Why won't they leave me alone?!"

I spoke to the bus driver. Junior switched his seat. Then he switched back because he was lonely. Then he switched again.

Finally, we nailed it: As Junior waited at the bus stop he chewed mint gum. He had a napkin in hand so when the bus pulled up he could spit it out. As soon as he sat down, he exhaled into the faces of the little girls and exclaimed, "Ah, minty fresh."

The teasing stopped for awhile, but every so often it would rear its ugly head and we'd have to return to the gum-at-the-bus-stop routine. A First World problem, yes, but when your kid's in tears and he hasn't even gotten dressed for school yet—"I hope they leave me alone today, Mom"—you quickly find yourself consumed by it too.

Ah, the sticky world of adolescence. Whether it's a lisp or tartar, some brat will point it out. But—but!—summer is here now. Popsicle breath is en vogue. Ice cream breath is en vogue.

In all fricken flavors.

The fricken school bus

I registered Junior for kindergarten today.

I won't get into how choked up I was (I'll save that sob fest for his actual first day) or how taken aback I was by how heavy it all felt. I mean, I knew signing the paperwork would feel monumental, I just didn't realize it would feel like I was shipping him off to college.

In Antarctica. 

Before I had children, I used to make fun of moms who would get all mushy and weird about the first day of school. I used to think they were so emotional. Saps, I tell ya! What was the big deal? You popped out a kid, he grew up, you stuck him on the bus, and you got your life back.

I can see now that I got the first few items right. Pop out kid. Check. Kid grows up. Check. Stick him on bus. Check.

But this idea of getting a life back, as if it's something tangible and in tact that's been waiting patiently for you for five years, as if it can be reclaimed once the kid has grown his proverbial big kid wings...well, it doesn't work that way, does it?

What I didn't realize is that that kid becomes your life, and your life becomes that kid. And I don't mean in that suffocating Helicopter Parent way. I mean in all the best ways. Whether you work or stay at home or sleep hanging upside-down, that kid has changed who you are.

You've invested years into his upbringing: kissing his scrapes, reading him stories, teaching him big words, wanting him to be kind, hating him because he whines, fixing his damn cowlick, dragging him to the store, tricking him into eating broccoli by pretending it's a talking tree, searching for his stuffed dog.

And on and on.

And then just like that, one day you're supposed to hand him over to the world. The World.
 
(I wish I knew how to cue a cyber thunderbolt.)

Ahem, THE WORLD.

I know he and I will be fine, I know this is what's supposed to happen, but crap, to every mom out there whom I previously pointed at and laughed (I may have also, um, called you pathetic behind your back), I'm sorry. This shit really gets you in your soft spot.

I do take some comfort in knowing that while I may be grappling with this kindergarten thing, I am faring far better than some others. The Mulletville Lite elementary school was nice enough to leave a sheet with FAQs for us newbies. Some of my favorite questions were:

"Can I ride the bus the first day with my kid?"

(Why not just sit on his lap for the whole school year? It might be less awkward for him.)

"Can I meet the bus driver before the first day of school? How do I know he/she will like my kid?"

(My bus driver swore at motorists and purposely went over curbs so we'd bounce higher in our seats. We all lived to tell about it.)

"Can I follow the bus to school to make sure my child gets out all right?"

(Oh, Jesus. You need help.)

And my all-time favorite: "Can my child please get a hot, sexy teacher I can ogle at all the boring PTO meetings?"

(Fine, fine, that was mine.)