I kissed my children this morning and watched them head out the door to walk to school with their mother. With both of them at school full days now, my mornings are busier, but less hectic. I showered, dressed, searched the house for my required personal items, and then I left for my meeting at church, now an hour earlier thanks to this new schedule. Life was good.
As I walked from my house to the car, I turned and saw my son’s friend standing on the sidewalk, waiting for the school bus, just as I had for the past two years. He was off to the first day of his final year of pre-school and, with my son now in Kindergarten, he was getting onto the bus alone. A slight nostalgia crept over me, even as I was thankful not to be doing that anymore. I have a lot of fond memories of that bus stop.
My meeting went well, and very long, but I didn’t worry about rushing home to meet that school bus as I normally would have. Instead I lingered, discussing something with my pastor at length that might have otherwise been pushed to another day. I was a free man. My day and my time were my own. I caught up on things that I should have done last week. I paid special attention to things that I could have rushed. I did a better job.
When I did arrive home, who was there to greet me again? None other than the school bus, dropping off Edward’s friend again. His mother and sister greeted him, and I had an overwhelming urge to run over and ask how his day was. Did he have the same teachers? What did the room look like? Was anything different? Was anything the same? Who was in the class this year? I wanted to be a part of that moment. I wanted to get a child off of the bus.
I decided that, no, this was a special family moment between the child and his mother, and that it was really her job to ask him how school was. My son would be home a few hours later and I could certainly ask him about his day at that time. But he has been in school for weeks now. It is not his first day. He is not on the bus. He is older. He is different. He is new. I am older too, but I do not feel different. I do not feel new. I feel like I want to go back to the days of him leaping off of the bus dangerously into my arms. I want to go back to the days of him climbing onto me without worrying about stamina. I want all of these things, at least for a fleeting moment.
Then I walked back into the house, free of noise, free of surprise attacks, free of life, and I ate a sandwich, looking at the clock for the moment it was time to walk to Kindergarten.