Laura Chapman Writes

Deja vu.

I was sitting in an elementary school cafeteria surrounded by young parents of entering kindergarteners. Many were doing their best to simultaneously entertain toddlers and pay attention to where to drop off, pick up and pay for lunch amid warnings of the perils of unattended children and pleas to please call the school to report an absence.

My five year old, gifted to us to raise — precious child of my child — sitting uncharacteristically quiet in unfamiliar surroundings, alternately reached out to touch my arm, then his beloved Papa every few minutes. Then held my hand with a death grip as we made our way to his classroom for a teacher meeting and supply drop off, through a sea of parents and children.

We took our place in line waiting to sign in.

I could see he was simultaneously excited and terrified. I could feel my own anxiety creeping but managed to tell myself I’d be fine.  After all, I thought, this wasn’t my first rodeo. The image of bucking horses in my head made me smile a bit and feel better. It was an odd thought. Hopefully not a premonition.

That one really made me smile.

This wasn’t a place we ever dreamed we would be. But changing rules had become common place in our lives.  Also bucking horses.

How could it be we were standing outside a classroom just four portable buildings away from the exact room where our twenty-four year old son had attended kindergarten?

Really?

Standing next to me. My husband said, “Can you believe it’s been twenty years?”

I nodded and shrugged a bit while small fingers still firmly held mine.

Were we really heading back into homework land AGAIN? Trudging through faded and tarnished memories, I tried to recall what that was even like. Pretty sure they weren’t my favorites or they wouldn’t have been filed in the almost impossible to find section. Or maybe time just moved so quickly they didn’t stick.

We had done a great job fitting this dark curled boy with huge eyes into our post child-rearing life.  I really felt we had this second-time-around-parenting thing down. I learned to sleep again with a monitor. Taking him with us everywhere we went and adhering to a strict bedtime routine was a piece of cake. We sailed through potty training and preschool. Cheered him on through baseball and swimming.

But now the rules were changing — again. And I knew, as surely as the ground I was standing on, this second-chance-rodeo would be over fast.

I wished with all my heart I had paid more attention the first time. Cherished the moments. Taken more notes.

Once inside, I was distracted by the tasks of finding his desk “Look that’s MY name!”, putting paper towels, hand sanitizer, tissues and a myriad of school supplies into boxes and cubbies. He was thrilled to help and we finished quickly. A few pictures sitting at the incredibly cool, name labeled desk and of him standing beside the colorful door adorned with welcoming Sesame Street Characters and we were ready to go.

Before leaving I looked around at the younger parents and my heart went out to them.

I wanted to tell them to hang on tight because this was where life as they knew it, would speed up. Little hands would quickly let go and gallop away. I wanted to tell them they would survive the craziness. I wanted to encourage them to take tons of notes and lots of pictures.

And I wanted to warn them. Chances were somewhere along the way the rules would probably change and it might not be fun. And just like us, they’ll have to hang on as tight as they can.  And they’ll be ok.

But their rodeo would be different they probably wouldn’t get a second chance–like we did.

This made me want to get right in their faces and tell them, maybe shout at them. “TRY as hard as possible to make it count NOW.” But I knew, just like younger me, they wouldn’t understand.

Instead I focused, really focused, on the feeling of the little hand back in mine as we walked to our car.

And was grateful.