1m2aSandbox

Last year, Maddie and her friends undertook that classic kids’ boredom game, Digging to China. Many of you will remember that Maddie’s posse began assiduously working on a hole to China on their school playground, calculating that they should be finished by sixth grade. Maddie even asked Brian to be there the last day of school in sixth grade – and bring scuba gear for getting through the oceans – so the family could go to China together. Fortunately, the gang called it quits a couple weeks into the project after one mother brought up concerns that their digging might cause shifts in the tectonic plates, triggering earthquakes in other countries. Ever ones to worry about causing other people harm, the girls regretfully called a halt to their diggings.

Until now.

Cora has impeccable timing: last night I’d juuuuuuuuuust sat down on the couch and pressed “play” on my DVR’d Newsroom when Cora began calling out: “Mooooommy! Moooooooommy!”

I walked into the darkened room and said, “What’s up, bug?”

Cora shuffled around a bit in her bed. “I was just wondering if you might need to get some snuggle right now. Because, you know, if you need some snugs you can, you know, just take some whenever you want.”

And she patted the bed next to her.

As I began to tell people this summer that I’d be a baby empty-nester – both kids in full-time school – come fall, I also began hearing the same question over and over again. Sometimes asked wistfully, sometimes bewilderingly, sometimes dripping with envy, but almost always the same question:

“So . . . what are you going to do all day then?”

And you know what’s ridiculous? I often feel the need to give a play-by-play justification of an answer to them. “Well, I’m going to spend hours cooking gourmet dinners, and change the sheets on the bed every day, and of course devote a significant amount of time to caring for the poor.”

I may have hinted, here and there, that I am a wee bit sad about school starting in general, and my baby starting kindergarten specifically.

A wee bit.

So to everyone who called or emailed yesterday with their condolences –er, sympathy –er, kind words – I say a heart-felt thank you. Deeply.

To those who sent well-meaning words of encouragement along the lines of “this doesn’t have to be an identity crisis”, I thank you for your intention, but you missed my point.

Dear Cora:

In a few short hours you will be starting kindergarten. Something irreversible will have begun, and though I’m loathe to see it happen I’m so proud you’re doing this so well. You’re marching forward with joy and anticipation and I’m doing my best to hide my sorrow so it won’t taint your happiness.

For yes, I am sad. You are my heart, my little love, and I will miss your daily presence in my life. And yes, I know you went to preschool last year, but five hours, three days a week is simply not the same as seven hours, five days a week. Last year we had two days a week for pure Mommy and Cora fun, and those two days were the best parts of my week. If I could put myself in your backpack, I surely would: I have spent the past week furiously cooking make-ahead breakfasts and muffins for lunches, labeling water bottles and laminating favorite photos for you to hide in your backpack. I’ve done everything I can, short of drinking Alice’s shrinking potion and stashing myself in your pocket.

I had a great day with the girls yesterday. A fantastic day. We got up early, played at a sandbox park, played in a sprinkler park, ate lunch outside, hung out with my niece, went ice skating and clothes shopping, ate a quick supper, played around the house – a fantastic day.

Which leads me to this: remember the other day when I said I was ready for school, finally able to move forward and to let go?

Yeah, that was what I call a false positive.