Kindergarten starts today.
I'll make him chocolate chip pancakes, and we will sit at the table and chat about the exciting day ahead. I will lay out his first-day-of-school clothes and remind him to brush his teeth and use the potty before he leaves. I will take loads of pictures, of course.
I'll hold his hand in the driveway while we watch the big, yellow bus rumble up our street. We will hear it's unmistakable "screeeeech... Puffffff" as it stops. He will let go of my hand and climb onto the bus. I will wave. I might blow him a kiss, if it won't embarrass him - I'll have to remember to ask.
I'll take my mother's advice and drive to school, meeting him when the bus parks to make sure he knows where to go from there. This is more for me than for him, I know. I will walk him to his classroom. I hope he wants to hold my hand while we walk, but I'll understand if he doesn't.
I will try really hard to not be ridiculous tomorrow morning. I'll try really hard not to cry.
He says I won't be sad like the pretend parents in his 'The Night Before Kindergarten' storybook. "They're silly," he says. "They don't know the kids get to go home after school."
They are silly, I tell him.
I don't tell him I'm silly, too.
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