Week 37 – It’s the End of Kindergarten, Baby

This is it. The final two days of kindergarten. I am melancholy. Miss H – Mrs K – has been the best teacher we could have asked for. Kind and concerned yet firm and fair. She did well by my child. She did well by me.

We run errands this morning after Mac dresses himself impeccably in a pair of khaki shorts complete with new belt, and a Ralph Lauren shirt that he received from the Australian girl for his birthday. He is smashing. We have one of his last three sessions with his talking doctor. Then he eats leftover grilled cheese in the car on the way to school. And nothing is different. All is the same. We wait. The kids chat and play. Mrs K opens the door to retrieve them for the afternoon. I dodge into line to kiss Mac and remind him to be good. The kids file in excited for another afternoon in their beloved classroom with their beloved teacher. The door closes. Late-comers run but are too late and have to go thru the main door. It’s the same as always. There is no indication that it all ends tomorrow. This comfortable little group. Of moms, dad, children, siblings, backpacks, strollers. We have grown so accustomed to one another that we no longer even feel the need to make idle chit chat with everyone. And tomorrow will be our last day of this comfortable, homey feeling.

We have a play with the Australian family after school. One of the French girls comes along, which pits boys against girls. Not aggressively, but still. I enjoy a chat with the mum, but I feel we don’t get to discuss much. We agree to spend some time at the beach together this summer. I am loathe to get mostly naked in front of so many of my mom friends this summer. And I wonder if there is a statute of limitations against 39-year-old women wearing bikinis at the beach. I guess I will know I am too old when I know I am too old.

We have already scheduled a beach date – weather permitting – with another of the French families. I fear losing touch with the parents over the summer and having no one to hang out with, either by default or by choice.

I wonder why I make such a big deal out of these events: end of school and such. It’s just one of so many, which will take place year after year. And yet, I think about whether or not Mac might fit into the same clothes he wore for his first day. And whether or not I should wear the same outfit I wore. Or if it even matters. Or for that matter why I even think about it. Our summer schedule literally starts Wednesday, not a day to spare, to rest, and yet I am still stroking melancholy.

I just
Don’t
Want it
To end.

But it will. Like every thing else. And I have to realize that kindergarten will not be my end-all. I thought this was it. This was our destiny. But I see it’s yet another stepping stone in this grand mystery we call life.

I am such a cliché.

Tuesday. I almost write “Friday.” It’s not the end of the week, just the end of the school year.

A normal morning. Pancakes. Hash browns. Sailor whining and crying because we don’t have blueberries for his pancakes. Mac moaning about starvation when I get angry and say, “Fine. I’ll go take a shower and you guys need baths and we’ll get ready to go and we’ll go to the store for blueberries.” A normal morning.

And we are almost late for our last day of kindergarten. Did I just say “our”? Indeed. But it has been “our” year. I have been as involved as a parent could have been.

Mac marvels that he went into kindergarten 5 and came out 6.

At drop off the paparazzi from September is back. There are digital cameras and video cameras popping and whirring and flashing. All the parents are here. And the kids act no differently from any other day. It’s all normal. Except for parents calling their children’s names and “turn around!” as they disappear into the big school for the last time as kindergarteners.

And then I utter the words, “I just can’t deal!” and the tears begin to fall. Mrs. K waves at her audience of parents. “Good-bye!” she says. She has a doctor appointment and will leave before dismissal.

Suddenly I realize this is it! I run up the stairs. “Good bye,” I say, and we hug, a long hug. “Thank you,” I say, through tears, “for everything.”
“Take care of your babies this summer,” she tells me, “they are really wonderful boys.” She doesn’t want me to cry. I can’t help it. It’s heartbreaking. Really.

Other moms follow my lead and line up to say goodbye and hug Mrs. K. She is a fab teacher. We will miss her a great deal.

The door closes. But no one leaves. We parents linger. And linger. What are we waiting for? I pick the Australian mom to chat with and we walk off together.

Sailor and I stop at the grocery for a $4 bag of whole wheat flour. I have it in my head to make a huge batch of cookies for the children for after school.

Sailor and I bake. The kitchen is a mess. He wants to play games in the living room. We play for a bit and then head to school. We are very early. I walk slowly. I invite Sailor to lie down and he is out in a blink. Everyone EVERYONE is at pickup!

The principal winds thru the crowd.

It’s a madhouse of parents and cameras and new babies and friends. The cameras come out again and we capture our small children’s exit from the world of kindergarten. I capture once and for all the beauty of my little boy running out to greet me with that smile that I love. The same way he has greeted me all year, and for the two years of preschool preceding.

He takes off toward the playground and I wind my way thru the absolute masses of people.

We hand out cookies. Olivia and her mom hand out popsicles. Some middle graders hand out frozen chocolate bananas. No one discriminates. Everyone is welcome to share.

One of the French girls tells me in not-quite-perfected English that she wants to give her doll to Mac’s little brother. “Pourquoi?” I ask. “Why?”
“Because I don’t like she.” It’s a pretty doll with a beautiful dress. I am uncertain of the word for “borrow” in French. I will have to check in with her mom about this.

There are more cameras. Group photos. Solitary photos. Mac showing off his ability to pump his swing for the video camera. Someone gets hurt. Someone gets time out. And so it goes. They are still just little. Our little 5- and 6-year-olds. They can do so much now. But they are still just little.

Mac thinks he has graduated. He wants a huge party tonight, complete with presents, he says. He has to be happy with the chocolate chip cookies, I tell him. I let him eat many.

We walk home.

In Mac’s folder are all sorts of goodies. His sign-in sheets from the day one to the last, showing an amazing improvement in skill and ability. Other paperwork, his journal, which I tell him we should continue to write in every day for the summer. His report card. He has met all the expectations of the kindergarten curriculum. Except he is still not clearly able to identify coins and he is still working on fractions. Fractions?! I though this was kindergarten, not 2nd grade! He has far surpassed all of my expectations. He can read. He can write. He can do some math. Tie his shoes. Not to mention take a shower, make coffee….

And that’s all there is to it.

Tomorrow our summer vacation will officially start and I can start bitching about not wanting Mac in school all day next year – if I want to, but I don’t think I want to. I think I need to just get over it and deal! North Avenue Beach – HERE WE COME!