our first-day-of-school photos framed in the hallway outside the triplets’ rooms in shadow boxes with each year labeled and containing each child’s photos from school, soccer, and Little League and/or hip hop. It’s such a nice way of preserving the memories. You really should come over for coffee one day, Grace. You haven’t been over since we finished the reno on the kitchen.”
“I’d love to, Lorna,” I lie, wondering how she has time in the morning to apply blush and her trademark red lipstick, put on a coordinated outfit including a belt, and prepare whole grains. Saved by the bus.
“Bye, guys,” I say cheerfully to Henry and James, giving them big wet ones and giant hugs that swallow them whole. “You’ll do great, James. I’ll be right here after school. I love you!”
“Love you too, Mom,” they say as they charge confidently onto the bus.
Love that. Love that they’re independent and don’t give a second thought to leaving me and going off into the world. Through the windows, I proudly watch Henry lead James into a seat and help him with his seatbelt.
“I thought the kindergarten moms were supposed to bring the kids into school on the first day?” Lorna asks accusingly, interrupting my thoughts.
“It’s optional this year. Plus, James has been at the school so many times, and he has Henry with him on the bus and to walk him into school. He’ll be fine.”
“Oh. You must be so sad your youngest is starting kindergarten,” she says in a baby voice. “I couldn’t get Lisa Millerton off the phone last night. Poor thing was hysterical that Maddie was starting school.”
When Henry started kindergarten, I walked him into school the first day, James on my hip, Henry’s tiny clammy hand in mine. All the moms were swirling around, putting backpacks into cubbies, posing their kids for photos, greeting the teacher, the works. Like a seething tornado of attentive mothering. And most of the moms were crying. I tried. Honestly. I tried to cry. And considering I am ridiculously sentimental and cry at Harry Chapin songs and weight-loss reality television, I was surprised my eyes remained dry.
I wanted to feel what those other moms were feeling. That powerful sense of loss, of transition, of crossing that line from being in charge of the needs of your child 24/7 to relinquishing that responsibility to someone named Miss Marsha. But I just felt joy. Joy that I had raised my baby, that he was ready for this next step in life, that I was closer to regaining time for myself. Still, I felt sad that I couldn’t cry. That I was denying myself a universal rite of motherhood. And, of course, me being me, I thought I was doing it wrong.
“No, I wouldn’t call it sad. Maybe sentimental or nostalgic, but not sad. He’s ready. And I’m certainly ready to have time for myself,” I respond confidently to Lorna.
“That’s great, Grace. I remember when the triplets started kindergarten, and it freed up my days. That’s when I got involved in the hospital. Let me know if you’re interested in working on the fall fundraiser. We need all the help we can get,” Lorna says cheerfully.
“Thanks, I’ll let you know,” I say as the bus pulls away, and I pick up a few wrappers and go back into the house. I immediately start to cry as I release the intense tension I have been holding in all morning trying to act normally in front of the boys. Yesterday, when I thought of what that delicious moment would be like after the bus pulled away, I pictured myself skipping back into the house giggling, indulging in a bit of crazy dancing while singing George Michael’s “Freedom,” luxuriating in the feeling that I had no lunches to make, no appointments to get to, no mommy-and-me classes to slog through. I never pictured feeling the way I do now.
chapter six
I pour another cup of coffee and think about what I should do next. When I lived in the city, I would run around the reservoir several times a week. That
“I’d love to, Lorna,” I lie, wondering how she has time in the morning to apply blush and her trademark red lipstick, put on a coordinated outfit including a belt, and prepare whole grains. Saved by the bus.
“Bye, guys,” I say cheerfully to Henry and James, giving them big wet ones and giant hugs that swallow them whole. “You’ll do great, James. I’ll be right here after school. I love you!”
“Love you too, Mom,” they say as they charge confidently onto the bus.
Love that. Love that they’re independent and don’t give a second thought to leaving me and going off into the world. Through the windows, I proudly watch Henry lead James into a seat and help him with his seatbelt.
“I thought the kindergarten moms were supposed to bring the kids into school on the first day?” Lorna asks accusingly, interrupting my thoughts.
“It’s optional this year. Plus, James has been at the school so many times, and he has Henry with him on the bus and to walk him into school. He’ll be fine.”
“Oh. You must be so sad your youngest is starting kindergarten,” she says in a baby voice. “I couldn’t get Lisa Millerton off the phone last night. Poor thing was hysterical that Maddie was starting school.”
When Henry started kindergarten, I walked him into school the first day, James on my hip, Henry’s tiny clammy hand in mine. All the moms were swirling around, putting backpacks into cubbies, posing their kids for photos, greeting the teacher, the works. Like a seething tornado of attentive mothering. And most of the moms were crying. I tried. Honestly. I tried to cry. And considering I am ridiculously sentimental and cry at Harry Chapin songs and weight-loss reality television, I was surprised my eyes remained dry.
I wanted to feel what those other moms were feeling. That powerful sense of loss, of transition, of crossing that line from being in charge of the needs of your child 24/7 to relinquishing that responsibility to someone named Miss Marsha. But I just felt joy. Joy that I had raised my baby, that he was ready for this next step in life, that I was closer to regaining time for myself. Still, I felt sad that I couldn’t cry. That I was denying myself a universal rite of motherhood. And, of course, me being me, I thought I was doing it wrong.
“No, I wouldn’t call it sad. Maybe sentimental or nostalgic, but not sad. He’s ready. And I’m certainly ready to have time for myself,” I respond confidently to Lorna.
“That’s great, Grace. I remember when the triplets started kindergarten, and it freed up my days. That’s when I got involved in the hospital. Let me know if you’re interested in working on the fall fundraiser. We need all the help we can get,” Lorna says cheerfully.
“Thanks, I’ll let you know,” I say as the bus pulls away, and I pick up a few wrappers and go back into the house. I immediately start to cry as I release the intense tension I have been holding in all morning trying to act normally in front of the boys. Yesterday, when I thought of what that delicious moment would be like after the bus pulled away, I pictured myself skipping back into the house giggling, indulging in a bit of crazy dancing while singing George Michael’s “Freedom,” luxuriating in the feeling that I had no lunches to make, no appointments to get to, no mommy-and-me classes to slog through. I never pictured feeling the way I do now.
chapter six
I pour another cup of coffee and think about what I should do next. When I lived in the city, I would run around the reservoir several times a week. That
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