how many tissues can a backpack hold?

i stared at it, sitting on the kitchen counter after liam hauled in the mail once we returned home from our recent beach trip.  it was on the very top of the pile, covering a few party invitations, bills, and pizza coupons.  i tried to busy myself with other tasks ... but my eyes always wandered back.  and then finally, after fighting it for so long, i began to cry.

it was the pottery barn kids catalog, and the feature on the cover were school backpacks.

liam heads off into the shiny, bright world of kindergarten in 45 days.  he's excited -- no, the word "excited" doesn't cover it.  he's over-the-moon.  enraptured with the idea.  cannot stop talking about it.  cheering every time we drive past lacy elementary, soon to be our home-away-from-home for the next seven years.   mulling over important aspects of this new venture outloud, like, "i wonder if i have to eat all my food on my tray in the cafeteria before being excused."  and, "do you think i'll have the same chair in my classroom every day?"

and i sit there, desperately trying to put on a happy face and be excited for him.  but inside, i'm dying.  i never thought i'd be one of those moms, arms outstretched towards her baby as the school staff extracts him from her death grip... but i'm starting to understand those women.  i get it.  i'm not going to be surprised if that's exactly what happens on august 26. 

i don't quite know exactly what's going on in my head.  it's not that i fear he's not ready socially; our purpose in starting him a year late (he makes the cutoff by two weeks, and being a boy, we never really even considered sending him on time to be the very youngest in his class) was to give him that extra time to blossom into himself.  he's now confident, goes out of his way to meet new people, and will strike up a conversation with the bag boy at the grocery or the random beachcomber in the sand without a second thought.  yes, socially, he'll make new friends, get along with his tablemates, enjoy his bus seat partner -- he'll be fine.

i don't fear for him physically.  he's by no means the biggest kid -- despite being one of the oldest -- but he's not the smallest either.  he's comfortable in his own skin (often too comfortable with itches and stopped-up noses, if you get my drift) and extremely athletic.  i know he'll have ego boosts when playing team games at recess ... a far cry from my own childhood, when i was always the last chosen.  (i blame my parents for that one.  i skipped a grade and was not sports-inclined to begin with, so that was just a recipe for disaster.)  i believe that when the inevitable bullying occurs, whenever it may be down the road, he's got such a sense of who he is that he'll have no problem sticking up for himself.

i certainly don't fear that he's not ready academically.  he's this insatiable sponge of knowledge these days, constantly teaching chris and me facts that we either never knew or have long forgotten.  "did you know that the largest species of penguin in the world is the emperor penguin?"  (i did not.)  in the midst of staring up at the crystal clear sky off the back deck at the beach house, chris pointed and tried to introduce liam to the term milky way.  liam's response?  "yes, people of ancient times decided that their sky looked like a river of milk, so that's how the name started."  astronomy 101, with dr. william mann. 

so if it's not social or physical or academic concerns, then what am i worrying about, anyway?  why does my heart beat faster and the tears well up in my eyes as i think seven weeks down the road when i take him to his classroom on the first day?  it doesn't take a pricey shrink to figure this one out: it's not liam whom i worry about.  it's ME. 

the main way i have described myself to others (and, yes, to myself too) for the past six years is that i am a Mother.  sure, i'm lots of other things -- teacher, tennis player, wife, friend, volunteer -- but those all take a back seat to what i deem most important in my life.  i am a Mother.  i have had the privilege of spending the vast majority of my children's days with them, often chauffeuring them from activities and playdates and to the grocery for a few quick things and for all the other mundane tasks that they have no choice but to be on the ride for.  but more often than that and far more importantly than that, i'm engaged with them.  we play soccer in the back yard and swat at mosquitoes while liam, somehow, always beats me.  i play dress-up with susanna when she's wearing her winter coat, a belle gown, and rainboots as she travels with her prince to the north pole.  we set up an complex marble tower and watch with glee as it works exactly the way it's supposed to.  we make elaborate artwork on the easel outside.  the kids stand on stools in the kitchen with little aprons tied around their bodies and help me bake cookies and cheesy spinach treats.  we make a point to meet our mailman at the end of our driveway, offering him a bottle of cold water and an inquiry as to how his day is going.  there's just no shortage of amazingly fun activities you can do with preschoolers.

and i think that's what i'm struggling with.  sure, he's still my baby boy; he'll still be home every afternoon with time to keep up some of these activities.  but not all, and not nearly long enough.  he'll be at school for 6 1/2 hours (7 if you count transportation) which is easily the majority of his waking hours.  he'll be with other adults more than he'll be with me. 

i already know that the hardest specific point in this process for me will be leaving the school building on the first day.  because as i make my way down the shiny, gleaming hallways with signs of upcoming PTA events and kids' artwork adorning the walls, i will be very conscious of the fact that although i walked into the building holding hands with my first-born and only son, i am walking out of the building alone.  my liam, my precious liam who has been separated from me for less than ten days total in his six years on this earth, will not really be MY liam anymore.  we're sending him off into the big bright world, praying that we have done what we needed to do to adequately prepare him for being on his own. 

so i turn back to the evil tangible reminder that sits inches away from me -- that catalog showcasing all sorts of backpack choices -- and i wish that pottery barn kids had had the foresight to print it on waterproof pages.  because i have a feeling i'm not the only mom in america crying as she tries to select a backpack and coordinating lunch box for her little boy through a cloud of tears.