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Wednesday, May 2, 2007

This is an old post I wrote for my MySpace blog. It's relevant here, so I decided to put it up.

Every morning when I put my son on the bus, a little piece of my heart breaks off and tries to follow him. But of course it can't, so before the bus has even passed my property line, the little heart-piece comes crashing down by the roadside, where it shatters into tiny shards, which get pounded into dust by the huge semi-trailers that were lined up behind the bus waiting for my son to get on.

I doesn't help that he tells me every day how much he hates school and makes up excuses to stay home. I don't think he really hates it as much as he says he does; he always has something exciting to tell me and he treasures every worksheet he brings home as if it is an original copy of the Magna Carta.

Every morning we go through the same routine. He doesn't want to get up. (Neither do I!) Then ts breakfast, getting dressed, checking homework, and I give him a reading lesson. Brush teeth, read from a science book until the bus comes.

Then the bus driver honks, I get a kiss, and my little guy races out the door. I wave to the bus driver as my son takes his seat—always the same seat, on the side facing our house, where he can see me. For one short moment, the entire word has come to a halt so my child can board his bus safely. As the bus pulls away, I can see that tiny little hand waving goodbye to me. I stand on the front porch in my bathrobe and watch until the bus goes around the curve, even though it is about 10 degrees outside. The long line of trucks that has stopped slowly grinds back into action. I think of that country song, "There goes my life; there goes my everything."

I turn around slowly and walk back into the house.

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