Perhaps I’ve teared up a few times at the bus stop over the years as I’ve sent the 3 little Weeds back to school, but really I’m more of a “make way for a cartwheel ’cause they’re going back to school” kind of a mom. September rolls around & I’ve had just about all I can muster of the free-flow, carelessness of summer & I cannot wait for some routine to return to my life. Back to school brings with it organization. Regularly scheduled activities on a calendar. Oh, how I love a calendar with a plan. That’s something to get excited about…that and the hours upon hours of time to myself with no one bickering, eating through the pantry in a single sitting, using all the broadband speed, leaving messes of dishes & wrappers all over the house or generally bugging me. But really, it’s more about routine smirk Back to school is when we all get to take a deep, long breath and smile at the schedule.
Yesterday though. September 9 was the last time sweet ginger boy had gone to school. Five weeks of home & hospital. Five weeks of tests & chemo & general awfulness. Five weeks of “absent”. Yesterday though.
Feeling good with his immune system doing a great job of rebuilding to help keep him safe from the invasion of infections, I dropped him off at the front doors to DHS. And he walked away from the car for the first time in five weeks without me. Without me. It felt like kindergarten all over again. Except he wasn’t looking back at me for reassurance or a boost of “you-can-do-this-I-love-you” confidence. And, shockingly, he not once asked if I could come with him, hold his hand, find his class or help him with his locker. Not once! So instead I sat and watched him confidently walk away.
That lump, the one that appears when you let go, settled in. My mind wandered to all the awful possibilities of what could happen on this day at DHS. Would someone touch him who has a cold? Would a friend hug him who isn’t up-to-date on their vaccinations? Would someone accidentally hit his port? What if he started bleeding and his platelet count is still too low and he bleeds without stopping? What if someone makes fun of his bald head? What if? What if? What if?
When I am afraid, I put my trust in you. – Psalm 56:3
What if’s are useless. What if’s rob us of the good moments. Rather than worrying, I decided to celebrate. Celebrate that five weeks later, he’s feeling well enough to go to school. Celebrate that on this day he had some “normalcy” in his life. Celebrate that he has amazing friends who take excellent care of him and are rallying around him. Celebrate that even when I don’t feel like I’ve got this, He does. Oh, something could go wrong. But if it does, then we’ll tackle it head on, just like we’re tackling this. But it might not go wrong. And why waste a real opportunity to celebrate on a what if that might never occur?