This week I sent so much of my heart to preschool. Just so much of it poured out of my chest as I watched this tiny creature who has fascinated me and exhausted me and humored me march through a dutch door and claim a spot on the rug in his classroom.
And I left it there, my heart. Sitting on that rug, tucked in beside the other three year olds in their faded denim and tennis shoes.
I had the great privilege of growing him inside my skin, tucked in under my heart. That intimate space that only he and his brother have known. No one has been closer to my beating heart.
I have had the great privilege of all the mundane bits of his life... the ins and outs of pushing arms through sleeves, and pulling socks onto little feet, of brushing his teeth, and wiping jelly off his face. Of unwrapping bandaids, of cutting up grapes, of searching for lovies.
And for the last three and a half years I have known every single thing that went into his mouth, every single person he has spoken to, every single thing he has watched or listened to. I have known it all.
Every. Single. Thing.
And this not knowing every single thing... it's the worst.
I mean, I have the general idea of preschool. Circle time, story time, craft time, centers.
And I received the 3 year old run down of his day.
"I pwayed toys. And I pwayed kitchen. And I wike Miss Jaycee. And what is a bruise? And de kitchen has a microwave wiff buttons. And we wead a story and sang a song about de months. And der is a wittle potty at school."
And I got the hand off at the door. " He had a great day! He loved doing the craft!"
But it's not every. single. thing.
And I'm so accustomed to every. single. thing.
And I just really feel compelled to make sure his teachers know how amazing he is. Like really, really know, that he is just amazing and complex and tender and perceptive. That he is so smart, and shy, but also funny. Like I need to sit down with them and tell them all the things, so they know. And I need them to fall in love with him, and the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs. And I need them to understand all the work we put into getting to school that morning. All the pep talks and hugs. The story we wrote together about the first day of school and the verse we found about how Jesus will be with him.
The compulsion is strong to call Miss Julie and tell her ALL the Things.
I was holding it together, as I walked away from the Dutch door and the sound of his voice and the smell of his hair. And then an administrator caught me in the hallway. She knew it was his first day. My first day. And with her hand on my arm she asked how I was doing.
Just that bit of kindness. It was too much.
And tears welled up.
And she offered to check on him if I called her in an hour.
I called in 45 minutes.
Because he is my heart.
He had a great first day. He has not taken off his school shirt since yesterday afternoon. And last night when I tucked him in, the boy who was afraid of preschool, asked if he could take his lunch and eat with friends "next tomorrow".
My heart will go back to preschool on Thursday and he will stay and eat with friends.
And I will not know all every. single. thing. and his teachers will not know ALL the things...
Or maybe I'll send an email.