Back to School Blues

The tears started over a toadstool. I was walking Lark, our uber sniffing beagle/corgi mutt, and came upon a row of toadstools. I bent down to peer underneath them to see what gnome was hiding out under there. It’s a game we play to pass the time and avert the whining on our daily dog walks. I even spoke aloud, remarking, “Hmmm…I wonder what color your hat is Mr. Gnome.” Then I realized I was talking to myself. Then I stumbled over a dead snake, albeit a tiny one but bigger than a worm and most definitely a snake, and I am TERRIFIED of snakes. I screamed and ran and tripped in my unfit-for-dog-walking cork heeled wedges. There was no one to scamper ahead of me in my path to warn me of such critters as Bird and Deal usually do.

You see, Bird and Deal are in school. Real school. Elementary school, their names written in neat block print to mark their seat at the table, backpacks hung in a row of cubbies, crayons and pencils stashed neatly in bins. And they are gone from me all day long. Almost eight hours that my sons are with someone other than me, leaving me just a few hours a day with them at my side. We don’t even breathe the same air anymore. I realize it sounds dramatic, but this is how I feel. This transition, while proving to be very difficult for Deal, is giving me a mean case of the blues too. I’ve been a mother for seven years, sometimes dreaming of and wishing for and counting down to my days of peace.

But now it’s so quiet I can’t bear it.

I welcome a taste of tranquility. I do. I really do. But I’m not there yet. I’m not the mom who applauds the coming of school and wishes away my children. Sure, my sons drive me batty and I’ve often thought about auctioning them off on eBay, but overall, I really love hanging out with them. Deal has been my companion for five years with nary a day missed. We had a simple, easy life together and looked forward to Bird’s school tales come 3:45 everyday. Perhaps my days would be easier if I didn’t leave a ad teary eyed little boy in the corner classroom everyday. Perhaps if Deal had a tish of Bird’s independence and temperament this experience would be easier. Perhaps if Deal waved me off as his big brother did instead of whimper I would sail through my days. Perhaps if I were more inclined to let my babies grow up and fly off this transition would be filled with less sorrow.

I feel as if I leave an appendage in the school yard everyday. I feel its presence but look around and it’s not there. Today I made my rounds to various stores I go to regularly with the boys. At every stop workers looked around and asked where my sidekicks are. I promptly got teary, explaining that they are both in school now, Deal just starting out in kindergarten. I went to the library and loitered in sections I’ve never ventured to before, all my time having been spent in the children’s room. I tucked my legs under me and pored over a Nigella Lawson cookbook. I watched as mothers held their little one’s hand and toted snacks and stuffed bunnies and other such trappings of motherhood. I felt pangs of heartache seeing those chubby kneed kids looking up adoringly at their moms. I admittedly disregarded the worn, dark eyed moms and their stringy bits of patience fraying at the ends.

I’m allowing myself a full pass to selective memory.

An empty house sits before me. And I can’t bring myself to stir. I forgot what silence sounds like. For now it sings the song of loneliness. I’m awaiting the transition to the sounds of peace. My world is antithetical to what Bird and Deal’s days look like. They bask in a new world of learning and independence and curiosity, while I chisel away the layers of motherhood’s mantel to rediscover Ilina in there somewhere. She’s there. I’ll polish her up, conceal those dark under eye circles, perhaps buy her a new frock, and let her shine soon enough. Til then, I’ll turn abruptly when I hear a child yell “Mommy!” and I’ll have to remind myself that it’s not my sons who need me. I’ll think of all the what ifs and all the times I said We’ll do that some time… I’ll think of those boys of mine perched with perfect posture in their seats instead of on my lap.

I’ll miss my little boys as I missed my babies too. Shakespeare had it all wrong. All the world is not a stage; it’s a melody of stages.