To say that he was excited would be only a small part of the truth. It is true that he bounced his way down the staircase fully dressed in his uniform well before 7:00am, but interspersed with leaping jumps onto the sofa, delighted grins, and the occasional peal of unrestrained laughter were several reflective moments. He crawled onto my lap for a few treasured cuddles, mostly silent ones, but the occasional question made me realize that he was thinking about the day ahead.
"Will I practice sport today, do you think?" for example, or, "The first day is supposed to be a really fun one," followed by "Mom, Will you show me again how to unpack and eat my lunch?" ("Of course, Darling"), and my favorite, "I'm really going to miss you." Or how about this one for tugging on the heartstrings: "If I don't have anyone to play with at recess, I will sit under the Friendship Tree and wait for a friend." When I look back, it is a small wonder that I didn't hang on to him more tightly before he left.
And yet, this day was not about me. The morning was his, and I was very keen for it to be all he had anticipated it would be. For a full year now he has watched his siblings don their uniforms, rush off to school, and then return full of stories, the occasional complaint, and heaps of new experiences. Finally, this morning, after what was for him an excruciatingly long year, it was his turn. His siblings greeted him enthusiastically, showered him with hugs, backslaps, and lots of attention, and he in turn basked in the glory of it. His turn, finally.
Following in his brother's footsteps, quite literally, when it was time, James grabbed his scooter and helmet from the garage, sailed out the front gate, and went flying down the street. Pausing just long enough to unstrap his backpack and hand it over to me, he darted off again to catch up to his big brother. I watched as the two of them rounded the corner, and I didn't catch up until we were inside the school gate. There, I was pleased to see, his eyes sought out mine, and his little hand reached up for a bigger one as he approached a classroom door that at this moment seemed very wide and very tall.
Once inside, things went very much as I expected. While most of the girls sat quietly at their assigned desks drawing and coloring, James and another boy gravitated toward the building blocks and were soon constructing and destroying towers. I watched from the perimeter of the room, eventually encouraging him to find his seat and work on the puzzle that had been left there for him to discover. He gave me a smile, and a wave, then another smile, and seemed more than ready for me to go on my way. I exited the classroom, but then returned for one last photo, one last smile and wave. To my delight, he complied.

Outside the classroom door, the mums and dads formed small support groups, chatting and sharing stories until the principal gently moved us on. A few struggled to maintain their composure as they clutched the little gift bags from the prep teachers. Inside the care packages we found a tea bag, a piece of chocolate, a packet of tissues, and a poem that I was warned not to read until I was safely back in my kitchen. I brushed off their concerns, playing the role of experienced mum of four, an old hand at dropping children off for their first day of prep. In reality, of course, this was my first time, but it wasn't until I was walking the yoghurt aisle at Coles that the emotions found their way to the surface.
It was at this point that I realized that James would have already eaten his lunch, and I had forgotten to include the frozen yoghurt I had promised him. What else had I forgotten, I wondered. Would he manage his food containers on his own? Would he need help from the teacher? How would he feel if no one came to his aid? Close behind these rather minor worries came the more substantial ones. Does he truly know how much we love him? How will he handle rejection if he experiences it from his peers? Have we communicated to him that he has been made in the image of God, one of a kind, designed for so many beautiful things, including the pursuit of joy, peace, love, and the knowledge and worship of his Creator?
There is still time, thankfully, to continue teaching him these things and for demonstrating our own love for him, imperfect as it often is. I felt somewhat ridiculous falling apart in the grocery store, and yet, this day clearly marked a milestone in his life, the end of one stage and the beginning of the next. As such, a time of serious reflection and evaluation on my part was certainly in order. Today, I realized, was a chance to practice the art of letting go just a little, of recognizing anew that my role is that of guiding our son to maturity, to responsibility, and eventually, to independence. We cannot hold onto him forever. One day the good-bye will be for much longer, and I can only imagine how difficult that will be. For today, my immediate need was to pull myself together in the dairy aisle so that I could make it back to the car in one piece, all in time for a happy reunion at afternoon pick-up.
Here are a few more photos from this day.








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