Mike is a teacher, but because Wednesdays are asynchronous days for his students he was able to go into work a little late and accompany us on our walk to Fletcher’s first day of in-person school. He is never able to join us for big days like this because of his school schedule. I didn’t realize how much I needed him to be there and you know what? He needed that, too.
Fletcher was all business before school. I was reminded that the time we spent preparing him for this transition was well worth it. Scaffolding for our kiddos with sensory challenges isn’t easy. It means extra planning, extra time, and often creativity. But it’s worth it. Every single time, it’s worth it.
I’m pretty sure Fletcher memorized the visual schedule we updated the day before and was so proud to announce each item that he checked off. Having that control was crucial for a successful morning. His biggest thrill was the discovery that his dry-fit shirt had thumb holes. “I’ve always wanted thumb holes!” Who knew?!
He ate a good breakfast and was excited to get packed up and on our way. A block from school he met up with one of his best buddies and as they walked in front of me I felt a lump in my throat. I wasn’t looking at the tiny little wonder-filled and boundlessly energetic guys I remembered from K-4. A few inches taller, this duo walked with purpose and a subdued gratitude for being reunited. I wasn’t prepared for that.
We arrived on the playground as the bell rang and students lined up, arms full of nap mats, disinfectant wipes and snacks to share – eagerly awaiting their teachers. Fletcher disappeared into his line, barely allowing me to steal a quick side hug. At that moment, I knew we had made the right choice for him. He was so ready. Mike watched him walk down the hallway and into his classroom noting how confidently he marched past the coat hooks and into his new room for the first time this year. We made it.
As we walked away, I couldn’t keep the tears in any longer. I cried most of the way home. And then randomly throughout the day, most often without warning. Sitting in our quiet house, driving to the store, and reading an email from Fletcher’s teacher after school that praised his amazing day and referred to him as a leader in her class (I’d like to take a minute to acknowledge that his teacher managed to simultaneously teach children both virtually and in person today for the first time ever and found time to email me sentiments that she’ll probably never know I needed to hear. Teachers are incredible.) My tears were of sadness and grief, elation and pride…uncertainty, hope, and a year’s worth of plowing through emotions because there simply wasn’t time or space to process them. My tears were a release.
Max took a rare three hour nap after his morning therapy appointments and I sat in our quiet house soaking up the silence for a while. I took in the kind of breaths that completely fill your belly and found myself slowly and intentionally letting them out, savoring the solitude. I was subconsciously inhaling the hope of a fresh start, gratitude for trusting adults watching over my baby boy, and the promise of more balance while exhaling the stress, pain, fear, worry, and constant feeling of being overwhelmed from our most difficult year.
When I returned for pick-up, Fletcher looked three years older. He was organized, regulated, in complete control of his body and following his teacher’s directions intently with his thumbs proudly displayed through his shirt’s thumb holes. I fully expected him to bolt over to me like he had the minute I came into his view last year. Instead I was greeted with a cool, subtle wave and he continued walking in his line to the designated pick-up area. I panicked a little thinking maybe something had happened. His teacher noticed me a few minutes later, complimented his great day and sent him on his way. When I asked Fletcher why he waited in line he replied matter of factly “Because Mrs. H. said we had to stay in line until SHE sees our parents.”
Whoa. I was taken aback by his display of such amazing impulse control. A win in and of itself.
Fletcher ran most of the way home – his little body needing a release after sitting so much. But in between sprints we’d chat. “I missed you, Mom,” he said at one point.
“I missed you, too, but I’m so glad you had such a great day!”
“Did you cry happy tears when you left this morning, Mom?”
“I cried complicated tears, Bud.”
And to be honest, I think I’ll be crying complicated tears for the foreseeable future. There’s so much to unpack from our pandemic year, so much to look forward to, and so much in between. Just. So. Much.
As life begins to open up a little bit, here’s to allowing ourselves to feel and process and unpack. And even cry the occasional complicated tears.