Panic Precedes the Pumpkin Patch
This morning I left the house at 6:15 AM for my usual Wednesday pre-dawn Writers' Support Group. This group consists of me and one friend and fellow freelancer who happens to like drinking coffee as much as I do (what else could get one out of the house so early?!). We get together weekly to talk about editors we have in common, to share struggles we're having with specific assignments, and mostly to feel like we have a colleague. Writing is a solitary business.
When I arrived back home at 7:50 AM, feeling energized by my professional outing, my beloved was dressing our four-year-old for preschool. It was a big day for the little guy...his first field trip, which consisted of a school bus ride (enough of a thrill itself) to a pumpkin patch/hayride outfit in a town 45 minutes away. I was pumping him up, talking excitedly about the day's affairs, when, at 7:51 AM, I was possessed by a sudden, chilling panic. He was to be on the bus in front of the Y at 8:00 AM, 40 minutes ahead of the normal 8:40 AM preschool arrival. Aaaaack!
Following a flurry of sock-donning and potty-using, we flew out the door and into the car about three-and-a-half minutes later. Thank goodness the Y was only one mile and two stoplights away! Even given the currently "heavy" Neenah traffic (one of the two bridges southbound off our little island is out), we were in line for the bus with about 45 seconds to spare.
I stood with him for several minutes while name tags were handed out and child accounting was performed. Then the boarding call came. "Go on," I said. "It's time to go." Funny how when I'm around, I'm still the ultimate authority...his teacher had just said the same thing, but he waited for me to repeat it.
He took a couple of steps toward the open door, then hesitated and turned back toward me, looking mildly uncertain. With a step in his direction and a hand on his shoulder, I gently nudged him forward. He climbed on the bus and found a seat near the back. As I waved at him through the window, mildly verklempt at this longest journey he'd ever taken without me or a grandparent, it struck me how soon the time would come that he wouldn't pause to look back before leaving me...and how much he'd still need me even when he was no longer willing to admit to it.
When I arrived back home at 7:50 AM, feeling energized by my professional outing, my beloved was dressing our four-year-old for preschool. It was a big day for the little guy...his first field trip, which consisted of a school bus ride (enough of a thrill itself) to a pumpkin patch/hayride outfit in a town 45 minutes away. I was pumping him up, talking excitedly about the day's affairs, when, at 7:51 AM, I was possessed by a sudden, chilling panic. He was to be on the bus in front of the Y at 8:00 AM, 40 minutes ahead of the normal 8:40 AM preschool arrival. Aaaaack!
Following a flurry of sock-donning and potty-using, we flew out the door and into the car about three-and-a-half minutes later. Thank goodness the Y was only one mile and two stoplights away! Even given the currently "heavy" Neenah traffic (one of the two bridges southbound off our little island is out), we were in line for the bus with about 45 seconds to spare.
I stood with him for several minutes while name tags were handed out and child accounting was performed. Then the boarding call came. "Go on," I said. "It's time to go." Funny how when I'm around, I'm still the ultimate authority...his teacher had just said the same thing, but he waited for me to repeat it.
He took a couple of steps toward the open door, then hesitated and turned back toward me, looking mildly uncertain. With a step in his direction and a hand on his shoulder, I gently nudged him forward. He climbed on the bus and found a seat near the back. As I waved at him through the window, mildly verklempt at this longest journey he'd ever taken without me or a grandparent, it struck me how soon the time would come that he wouldn't pause to look back before leaving me...and how much he'd still need me even when he was no longer willing to admit to it.
posted by Lisa Strandberg at 8:57 PM
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