The last two weeks have been pretty hectic - we ended the summer with a bang at my parents' house in Chicago, headed home for the boys to start school, and then made a quite last-minute decision to switch schools altogether.
The new school is one we had always thought we might end up at in the long run, and Y and I both feel pretty good about the decision for way too many reasons to bore you with. But taking the leap was definitely scary. For one thing, the new school is in another neighborhood, around twenty minutes from our house -- although only a few minutes from both of our offices, respectively -- and that meant Elan and Ariel wouldn't have many school-friends in the neighborhood. Birthday parties would be a
schlep, not to mention
play dates. And Elan had a tight group of friends already, cultivated over the past three years, and felt at home wherever they were.
For another, Elan was terrified and Ariel was flat-out refusing the change. The night before their first day, I held Elan in my lap as he sobbed, "I'm not going, I'm not going, I'm not going," over and over again into my dampened shoulder, unable to gain control. He explained, breathlessly, that he was afraid of getting lost in the vast building, of eating unfamiliar hot lunch, of not recognizing a soul.
And I cried, too, because I felt his fear, completely understood how daunting the prospect of such an enormous change was, especially to a child like Elan. A child who, in the past, has been slow to warm to anything new, who felt a comfort zone exceeded everything else in importance.
He cheered up a little when I explained that I'd be shifting my work hours to pick him and Ariel up from school more often, that they'd be in the care of our (admittedly wonderful) babysitter far less. More time with me was promise enough for him to agree to try.
"But you can't leave me there," he said, finally calming down, wiping wet streaks from his cheeks. "You need to stay with me the first day, okay?"
"I'll stay as long as they let me. And as long as you want me too," I soothed.
The next morning, as I pulled out his old orange lunchbox, Elan stopped me. "I want to use that little Bob the Builder one, okay?" He gestured to a small metal one decorated with the cartoon character, unused, shoved to the back of the cupboard.
I was surprised, but figuring he thought it might impress his peers, I found no reason to argue. Hell, I'd have given him gummy bears for breakfast that morning, had he asked. He got dressed quickly in his new school uniform - a white polo and crisp navy pants - and looked adorably excited as he climbed in the car.
And, as I had expected, he didn't want Y or me to stay with him long, because Elan would rather die than be looked at as the class baby. The other kids had started two days prior and seemed pretty well-adjusted. As the teacher led the line of students from the play yard into the school, Elan shrugged, gave us a small wave goodbye, and followed. The other kids chattered to one another, and ours looked so small, so alone, and so out of his element. And yet it was clear he'd made the decision to be brave; he'd go with the flow.
Ariel, naturally, looked around his new classroom, checked out the playdough, his chubby little classmates and enthusiastic teachers, and decided he'd rock all of it. He, too, let us go without a fight, and Y and I headed to work, dumbfounded that it had been so easy.
I spent the day on pins and needles, watching the clock and waiting for the moment when I could dart out of there and discover how my babies had fared in the big, new world we'd introduced them to. I was certain Elan would moan about missing his friends, about being lonely or shy. I had pep talks about it getting easier with time, with new adjustments always being difficult, all prepared, but wasn't sure I'd have the strength to use them, should he crumple in tears.
I wasn't as worried about Ariel, for he'd had a short day, and my sister-in-law had picked him earlier. Apparently, he'd had a ball, and claimed his new school was the "biggest one you ever saw." One down.
When the time came, I found Elan in the cafeteria, waiting for his name to be called indicating that his ride had come. He was sitting quietly, clutching his lunchbox, looking around nervously at the other children. My heart sunk; it didn't look hopeful. I reached him before he noticed me and folded him in a bear hug, unable to resist the urge to kiss his entire face. He grinned with relief and squeezed me back. Pulling him away from the group, I knelt on the floor, my hands on his shoulders, looked him squarely in the eye, and braced myself.
"So? How was?"
I cringe, waiting for the blow.
"Awesome!"
"What?"
"I loved it. Love this new school. Let's go home!"
Trying to contain my shock, I led him by the hand to the car. "Really? That's great! So does that mean you made friends?"
"All the boys in my class are my friends."
"Wow. That's great," I repeat.
"This is the school I want to go to. I had gym class. The teacher couldn't catch me!"
He chatters for a few minutes, and then we fall silent, him gazing out the window , me, just processing.
He's okay. The world didn't hurt him. He can handle change. This will be good.
Suddenly, he interrupts my thoughts. "But Mommy? I
never want to take that lunchbox to school again!
Never! It was so bad!"
"What was? Why? What happened?"
"At lunch, two girls
teased me about it! They said it was
babyish! They laughed at me and said 'your lunchbox is for BABIES!' I was so embarrassed and I'm never taking it again."
My stomach lurches. He had gotten hurt, after all. Ugh, the cruelty children can impart on one another. Those hideous little girl-brats...
"That's terrible, honey! I'm so sorry that happened. You never have to take it again, don't worry at all."
Gulp.
"So, um, what did you do? When they teased you?"
"Nothing. I just
ga-
nored them."
Phew.
"Well, I'm proud of you. That was exactly the right way to handle it. They're just some girls, they were being mean and silly. You really just ignored them?"
"No. Actually I said," he curls his fingers into fists, I notice in the
rear view mirror, "
you say that one more time and I'm going to punch you in the face!"
I gasp. Oh, no. He's going to be expelled. The first week.
"What? You really said that?!"
There's a pause. And then he lets out a sigh. "No, I just
ga-
nored them. I didn't say it."
And I realize with a smile that he's thinking,
but man, how I wish I did!
I'd sent him out into the world that morning, just five years old, in a white polo shirt, little navy pants, painfully wrong lunchbox in hand. I'd left him to fend for himself.
And already, he'd become someone I could relate to.
