Now, that he is safely back home from Washington D.C, I figure I can write to tell you about the first experience that I had with the cellist leaving our home for an extended period of time with adults who he is not related to. He traveled by coach bus (I can’t imagine) and looked to be super happy to be leaving. Amazingly, I wasn’t offended. This wasn’t his first voyage to our nation’s capitol (hello Forrest Gump) since we went in 2009 for the inauguration of President Obama. It was his first without us though.
When I took this picture I planned on deleting it because it didn’t come out quite as clear as I would have liked. While contemplating this post, I kept coming back to it because I feel that’s just the way that our relationship is lately. Fuzzy. Not horrible. I mean, I don’t have him screaming I hate you at me , or openly swearing (I kind of hate it when parents allow their kids to swear – personal preference here) and he isn’t a horrible kid. Just fuzzy.
The journey to this point in time has been a long one. I remember when I had to announce to my family that I was pregnant. The tears, the disappointment. The thought that I had ruined my life. It was so long ago, yet I remember it so vividly. I remember questioning whether I was going to be a great mom. Whether I should even BECOME a mother. After telling Mr. Houseful who was my then boyfriend, that we were going to be parents, I secretly thought about things that I could do to stay childless. It was a long process to get to HERE.
After having the cellist, so much went through my mind. He was cute, he was cuddly, he was mine, and he was responsibility. Every moment since the knowledge of carrying him inside of me was spent trying to figure out how to make his life worth it. I was bringing a little black boy into a world that was not just miserable at times, but downright horrendous for individuals that looked like my son. I was ostracized for having a visible represntation of something that everyone else around me seemed to be doing. No one could be harder on me than I could though. No one.
The day that he started Pre-K, I cried. Like a baby. I was 22 years old, and I still hadn’t gotten the hang of this parenting thing like I thought that I would. So many decisions had to be made, and so many people would be there to silently question those decisions. Why THIS particular school, are you SURE you want to leave him in all day? Should you be working? Why aren’t you working more?
Either way, I’m here. Just back from picking him up from his school after four days gone from the house. His home. Laughing and touring with friends that he has had for ten years. Teachers that have known him for almost as long as I have. Through changes in the school system, school building, and the obvious ones. He’s taller than me. His voice is deeper. He has a mustache. His school has become a second home of sorts.
These are the days that I try to sit and remember the kid that he used to be. The kid that would run up to me after school with the biggest hug and grin waiting to tell me everything that happened. He’s turned into the kid that comes home from school, chatty on certain days, and not wanting to be bothered on others. Yet, when he thinks no one is looking, he’ll stop to help his siblings with a problem that they have, or build them a fort so that they can sleep in it. He’s still that caring kid, just in a bigger body.
According to him, the trip to Washington D.C. went well. He enjoyed touring but hated all of the walking (this generation tends to be a bit on the lazier side, I’m noticing.) The most exciting part was having a hotel room to himself. Little things like that still remind me that I still have time, because he has a way to go before he becomes an adult. No matter how deep his voice gets, or how much he colors in his mustache, he’s still a kid that loves the simple things in life. Like hanging with friends, and a hotel room with a bed to himself.
Oh, and I got a t-shirt. 🙂