The Everyday Wish
My kids are grown up and almost out of the house. Ms. KT is 20 and possibly heading to Georgia come September for the last half of her college education. The Dude is 17 and who knows what he'll be doing in a couple of years. Regardless, they are for the most part independent adults.
That doesn't change a thing about how I feel each day when they head out the door and off to school. When they were very young, we'd walk to the bus stop and wait for the school bus-shaped rift to open and carry them off to a day of challenges. In the rain, in the grey, in the sunshine. And when the bus pulled up, I'd hug them and say, "Have a marvelous day. I hope you have fun, and learn cool stuff. See you when you get home." What I was really saying was, I love you, and I hope the world treats you kindly. I'm here for you. The learning cool stuff was surplus to requirements, but hey, a mom can dream. My top priority for them was survival in the cold, hard, cruel world, and to make it home safely.
But you can't say that to your mercurial and frustrated 5-year old boy with special needs. You can't say that to your sad-eyed 8-year old flower of a daughter. You can't say, "The day will probably suck for you because there are jackass kids who will bully you, and I know you're bored, and I know that learning is sometimes harder for you than for others ... but only sometimes. I know that sometimes you absorb it all while doodling images of burning schools on your note paper. I know that making friends is a crap shoot, and difficult as hell, and sometimes the kids are manipulative little bitches. I know that you'd rather be almost anywhere but there. I know. I love you, and I hope, truly, that you somehow have a marvelous day despite all that, and that the world treats you kindly. I'll be here for you when you get home."
The hugs and kisses stopped for The Dude at Jr. High because, gah! not cool to be hugged by your mom when you're dropped off for 9th grade. The goodbyes were the same though: "Have a marvelous day. I hope you have fun, and learn cool stuff. See you when you get home." I love you, and I hope the world treats you kindly. I'm here for you.
Both kids see themselves off now, of course, because they're (fairly) responsible adults. The Dude is out the door by 7, and Ms. KT follows soon after. These days, it's darker than sin and the rain comes down often as not. I look out the window, see how dismal it is, and feel like I did when they were 5 and 8. As they head out, all I can do is say, "Do you have your umbrella? Where's your jacket? Try to stay dry." Then, "Have a great day, and learn cool stuff!"
I may be saying that when they're fifty. But maybe, by then, I'll use real words. I love you, and I hope the world treats you kindly. I'm here for you. After all ... that's really my wish for them, and my promise, each and every day of their lives.
That doesn't change a thing about how I feel each day when they head out the door and off to school. When they were very young, we'd walk to the bus stop and wait for the school bus-shaped rift to open and carry them off to a day of challenges. In the rain, in the grey, in the sunshine. And when the bus pulled up, I'd hug them and say, "Have a marvelous day. I hope you have fun, and learn cool stuff. See you when you get home." What I was really saying was, I love you, and I hope the world treats you kindly. I'm here for you. The learning cool stuff was surplus to requirements, but hey, a mom can dream. My top priority for them was survival in the cold, hard, cruel world, and to make it home safely.
But you can't say that to your mercurial and frustrated 5-year old boy with special needs. You can't say that to your sad-eyed 8-year old flower of a daughter. You can't say, "The day will probably suck for you because there are jackass kids who will bully you, and I know you're bored, and I know that learning is sometimes harder for you than for others ... but only sometimes. I know that sometimes you absorb it all while doodling images of burning schools on your note paper. I know that making friends is a crap shoot, and difficult as hell, and sometimes the kids are manipulative little bitches. I know that you'd rather be almost anywhere but there. I know. I love you, and I hope, truly, that you somehow have a marvelous day despite all that, and that the world treats you kindly. I'll be here for you when you get home."
The hugs and kisses stopped for The Dude at Jr. High because, gah! not cool to be hugged by your mom when you're dropped off for 9th grade. The goodbyes were the same though: "Have a marvelous day. I hope you have fun, and learn cool stuff. See you when you get home." I love you, and I hope the world treats you kindly. I'm here for you.
Both kids see themselves off now, of course, because they're (fairly) responsible adults. The Dude is out the door by 7, and Ms. KT follows soon after. These days, it's darker than sin and the rain comes down often as not. I look out the window, see how dismal it is, and feel like I did when they were 5 and 8. As they head out, all I can do is say, "Do you have your umbrella? Where's your jacket? Try to stay dry." Then, "Have a great day, and learn cool stuff!"
I may be saying that when they're fifty. But maybe, by then, I'll use real words. I love you, and I hope the world treats you kindly. I'm here for you. After all ... that's really my wish for them, and my promise, each and every day of their lives.