Monday, September 8, 2008
There's a crayon in my Kate Spade!
What? Yeah, you heard me...there is a CRAYON in my KATE SPADE! An orange one, to be specific. Crayon that is. The Kate Spade is pink. The crayon orange. Or sort of orange. It is streaked with various other colors from being tossed in the giant box of crayons. The wrapper, dingy and peeling, only half hanging on. And, when I spotted it there, I cried. It's been an emotional week with my daughter starting kindergarten in her cute lil' Catholic school girl jumper. My son, starting preK. Mr. Independent now. I'm so proud, but also so heart broken. They both have their "own" things now. Things I'm not a part of. Even though I'm a room mom for both classes, it is still theirs, not mine. I'm a moon orbiting their planet. A sidebar. Something there. Not the main event, just an accessory. It's what I wished for, but I also dreaded. It's a shift in the dynamic that I knew would happen, but wasn't prepared for. Our school had a fire drill this week. The preK class practiced it the day before which resulted in a lot of tears, fears, and general chaos. I offered, the next morning, to come back for the drill and our teacher took me up on it. I figure it something I should do as a room mom and something that I'm blessed to have the ability to do because I don't work. I'm happy to help out in that way. So, I returned to the school. Rang the buzzer. Explained myself. Signed in. Talked to the principal whom was thrilled to see me (he'd assisted with the previous day's practice!) and I headed to my son's classroom. He took one look at me and told me to go home. He didn't need me there. I chewed on the inside of my cheek hoping the pain would keep me from crying and entertained myself with some other children in the class. A few I knew, a few I didn't. We lined up the kids for the drill before the alarm went off (to avoid the noise) and started the march across the street to the gym. I had two wonderful little boys assisting me in finding the gym since I didn't "know" where I was going. My son, well, he wanted nothing to do with me, despite his fear the previous day, of the drill. He was buddied up with another friend whose Mom had asked me to smooch on if necessary. I didn't have the heart to tell her later, neither one of them needed us. After it was over, I helped usher the kids back across the street and my son stood at the top of the stairs and told me that I could go home now. It was over. And, so I did. Tail between my legs. Bruised Mommy ego weighing heavily upon me. In addition to his disregard for me, my daughter had spotted me during the fire drill as she marched by, hands clasped behind her back. She whispered to me, "I'm fine. I have my friends." I headed home in a funk. Feeling somewhat rejected, sad, and generally useless. I loaded up the dishwasher. Threw a load in the laundry. Turned on the tv to some sort of garbage. Fired up the laptop to pay bills, catch up on email, do some school stuff. I grabbed my purse and fished around, blindly, for my wallet. My hand came across something small and round and unfamiliar to my fumblings in my purse. I pulled it out. That dingy, stubby, worn orange crayon. And I smiled. I think, from now on, there will always be a crayon in my Kate Spade. That crayon, to be exact.