My five year old son is torn between needing his Mommy, and becoming a Big Kid. I know he is going to continue along this vein for several years, until finally he is an adult and breaks away from me. He has an older sister, yet the struggle seems more pronounced in Jackson, my middle child. My daughter moved gently into Big Kid status. Not Jackson. Nothing is subtle with him. As such the transition is more painful, perhaps because I see our inevitable destinies so clearly.
We have had rain here on and off for three weeks. This morning the school office called, and told me Jackson had dried the kindergarten slide with his butt. Well, they didn’t phrase it like that, but they asked if I could please bring him some dry pants. We live quite close to the school, so I grabbed a pair of pants and walked down the street. Jackson was waiting for me in the office. He grinned when he saw me, happy I had come to his rescue. I took him into the office bathroom and helped him change. His pants were not really that wet. His Disney-enhanced undies were still dry. If he were at home, of course, I would have popped him into dry pants immediately, and I guess he wanted that level of comfort and attention. He continued to smile the whole time he was changing, and as I retied his shoes.
Transformation completed, as we left the office I told him I would walk with him back to his classroom.
He put his hand up, palm toward me. “No! I know the way!”
“Well, I’m sure you do, but I’m going to make sure you get there.”
“No, Mom, really, don’t come with me!”
Oh dear. Have we reached that age already? But the truth is, Jack is very mischievous, and I simply didn’t trust him to go back to his class without a detour.
“OK, I won’t go with you, but I am going to stand here and watch you.”
With that he took off, scampering across the courtyard to the doors that opened into the group of kindergarten classrooms. As he pulled one of the doors open, putting all his weight into it and leaning back slightly, he didn’t move out of the way fast enough and stubbed his toes on the door. Abruptly he let go and stood there jumping up and down, looking across the courtyard at me, howling.
“Owie, owie! I hurt my toes!”
I hurried over, examined the damaged extremity, kissed my fingertips and planted them firmly on the insulted toes. Miraculously cured. “I’m OK now,” he said slowly, testing the foot as he turned once again toward the double doors. I opened one for him, and watched him as he walked down the short hall.
Turning around he said exasperatedly, “Stop doing that!”
Sheesh. Make up your mind. I closed the door and turned toward home. My path took me directly past the kindergarten playground. I watched discreetly as Jackson emerged from his classroom to join the other children. Hands in pockets, smiling, he sauntered over to a group of little girls who appeared to be asking something. He gestured toward his pants, still smiling.
Ah, of course. Mom would totally spoil the cool.
Yet I understand his conflict. I am torn between wishing he would grow up a little and do some things for himself, stop messing, stop doing the kid things that are not so cute and adorable, while another side of me watches him when he is unaware, committing the sweetness of childhood to memory. Not wanting to let go of the last vestige of the little baby who slept safely next to my chest in a sling while I worked at the computer.
Of my three, as a toddler Jackson would most vehemently proclaim, “No, me do!”. He would never hold my hand, whereas the other two reached for my hand automatically. Jackson always wanted the freedom to break away from me at will. Interestingly enough, this year, his first year at Big Kid School, he holds my hand on the way to school voluntarily. He has reverted to wanting me to dress him, though he has been wriggling into his own threads since he was two.
Letting go and holding on.
The sacred dance between parent and child. So it has always been, so it always will be.