The New Kid

(Last Updated On: August 22, 2011)

Starting at a new school brings it, I think. Rips my carefully constructed armor right off of me. My son, on school # 3 in as many years, seems fine. But I’m not. It’s so hard. I’m filled with anxiety that I struggle to hide. Which I do. So he can be happy, carefree. Himself.

Who will he sit with at lunch on the first day? Who will be his friends? Those worries are reasonable. But I don’t stop there. My anxiety flies like a well winded kite. Will the first day make or break the year? Will he be popular? Loved or loathed?

Oh how I love him. Fiercely. You have no idea. Or maybe you do. I’d lift a pickup truck and carry it like a backpack for this kid.

At the meet and greet I try to calm myself. My poor almost 7 yr old, fresh from six shots (he choked back the tears) tells everyone who will listen that tomorrow is his birthday. Tells them his name. Tells them about his family, his pets, his favorite color. Asks them about theirs. Bright eyed, open, so eager to make friends.

I don’t think there is a mean bone in his body. If it exists, I have yet to find it. Sometimes I wish I would.  Just a little one, hidden in his pinky toe perhaps. To keep him safe. Protect him.

They make him “IT” in their game of tag. I quickly see which kid started that. The one with a whole foot full of spiteful little bones. I want to break his bones. I’m not so nice.

“Run away from him! He’s IT! Everyone run!”

Mean kid giggles with glee as his classmates follow suit. My boy is standing alone in the middle of the playground. Deciding what to do.

Lump. Throat.

Breathe I tell myself. Breathe because the boy, who is about to be seven, who had six shots? He is smiling and running after them. He is IT. In many ways. He’s lovable, attractive and gregarious and about to catch and infect all of them with his smile and the light of his friendly, open ways.

This is what I tell myself. Because otherwise I am going to fly into a million pieces like shattered glass.

Just wait.

And breathe.