Throwing stones.
This place has the feel of an upscale bohemian home-decorating catalog: sandalwood
flooring, an indoor "tree house," unadorned except for a strand of
lights strung around a cluster of long, smooth tree branches; a cozy
reading nook with pale pillows surrounded by a waterfall of creamy gauze
fabric.Two of the interior walls are mostly windows.
It's through those
windows that I watch my three-year-old boy as I leave him in the care of
others in the mornings, early enough that I cringe when the reflection
in the glass shows the circles under my eyes have yet to catch enough
daylight. He's been in preschool for a few weeks now and has never shed a tear. Aside from the slight fear of Is he already done needing me? I'm proud that he's becoming the independent soul I aspire to raise.
Last spring I wasn't sure if I was serious about sending him to preschool. Then I discovered the preschool of my dreams: no schedules, nontraditional teaching methods, and not a Fruit Loop or chicken nugget in sight. As dreams do, it came with a price. As dreams go, cost didn't matter.
My gut said go for it, so I did.
Know this: The gut is a master of speaking only when necessary. I'd like to have a little more of that in my life; too much would kill my spirit. When I haven't followed my gut, which is many times, trouble was soon to follow. But this isn't a cautionary tale. Trouble is like the wind: Although it blows for a while, it will eventually stop. Or it could lead somewhere you never knew you wanted to be. A little trouble is okay by me.
I wonder about my son, if he'll be like me: a skipping stone, at times gaining impressive distance and other times hitting the water with a plunk! painfully short on its mark. Mind you, all people are not skipping stones. Some are pebbles happily moved by the current; others are boulders, begrudgingly moved; or they are coarse like gravel. Rocks are made of minerals, with three categories of origin — sedimentary, igneous, metamorphic — create differing degrees of fortitude. We like to think of people as rocks, as in "solid." Nature reveals that some rocks can't withstand a burden.
As for my son, I don't expect him to be solid. He's made mostly of water, like all of us.
There are rocks of all sizes and compositions in the yard at my son's preschool: plastic rocks, a dry "creek bed" of smooth, flat stones; and large boulders for climbing. One afternoon as I entered the yard and approached a wooden 10-foot teepee to fetch my firstborn, I heard "No girls allowed!" and watched a dirty blonde future ward of the principle's office take aim and hit a female classmate in the head with a plastic rock. She screamed. I set my jaw. My son froze, wide eyed. I led him away, quickly instilling the virtues of not throwing rocks and being nice to girls.
Be like the water you're made of, my boy.
I experienced my own version of "No girls allowed!" as a kid. Even have a scar above my left eyebrow as proof. I wanted in on the rock battle my brother and cousins were having in front of grandma's house, but they wanted none of me. Like the kid at my son's preschool, the cousin who did the deed was a frequent visitor to the principle's office. I don't know if Mom pulled my brother away and gave him a talking to about how to treat girls and whom to befriend, but as his sister I can verify he's fared well in both areas over his 44 years on Earth. Anyway, it wouldn't be the first time a rock and I collided.
Over the past year, stones and pebbles have found temporary shelter in my purse—additions to my son's revolving rock collection. A few of them we've painted; the tiny choking hazards I've surreptitiously tossed into the trash; the larger accidents waiting to happen have been forcibly removed from his unwilling grasp. I like to think that his little-boy fascination with rocks will grow into a mature curiosity of the natural world. Of the few, simple things I want for my son, one is to be in awe of Creation.
In a couple hours I'll pick up my darling from the room with the ethereal reading nook and the barren tree house and the unsweetened oatmeal for breakfast. I'll ask him what he sang and who he played with and what he ate, and he'll tell me he doesn't remember. That's how it goes every time. Eventually, right about when we hit the interstate, he'll say, Hey mamma, I missed you while you were gone today. It never gets old. Motherhood is the ultimate manifestation of the gut speaking. Mine told me that the little one within was worth changing everything. After forty-one scary, exciting, sad, life-shaking weeks, he and I finally met.
In the years to come, I would realize my gut had been right about everything ever.
Last spring I wasn't sure if I was serious about sending him to preschool. Then I discovered the preschool of my dreams: no schedules, nontraditional teaching methods, and not a Fruit Loop or chicken nugget in sight. As dreams do, it came with a price. As dreams go, cost didn't matter.
My gut said go for it, so I did.
Know this: The gut is a master of speaking only when necessary. I'd like to have a little more of that in my life; too much would kill my spirit. When I haven't followed my gut, which is many times, trouble was soon to follow. But this isn't a cautionary tale. Trouble is like the wind: Although it blows for a while, it will eventually stop. Or it could lead somewhere you never knew you wanted to be. A little trouble is okay by me.
I wonder about my son, if he'll be like me: a skipping stone, at times gaining impressive distance and other times hitting the water with a plunk! painfully short on its mark. Mind you, all people are not skipping stones. Some are pebbles happily moved by the current; others are boulders, begrudgingly moved; or they are coarse like gravel. Rocks are made of minerals, with three categories of origin — sedimentary, igneous, metamorphic — create differing degrees of fortitude. We like to think of people as rocks, as in "solid." Nature reveals that some rocks can't withstand a burden.
As for my son, I don't expect him to be solid. He's made mostly of water, like all of us.
There are rocks of all sizes and compositions in the yard at my son's preschool: plastic rocks, a dry "creek bed" of smooth, flat stones; and large boulders for climbing. One afternoon as I entered the yard and approached a wooden 10-foot teepee to fetch my firstborn, I heard "No girls allowed!" and watched a dirty blonde future ward of the principle's office take aim and hit a female classmate in the head with a plastic rock. She screamed. I set my jaw. My son froze, wide eyed. I led him away, quickly instilling the virtues of not throwing rocks and being nice to girls.
Be like the water you're made of, my boy.
I experienced my own version of "No girls allowed!" as a kid. Even have a scar above my left eyebrow as proof. I wanted in on the rock battle my brother and cousins were having in front of grandma's house, but they wanted none of me. Like the kid at my son's preschool, the cousin who did the deed was a frequent visitor to the principle's office. I don't know if Mom pulled my brother away and gave him a talking to about how to treat girls and whom to befriend, but as his sister I can verify he's fared well in both areas over his 44 years on Earth. Anyway, it wouldn't be the first time a rock and I collided.
Over the past year, stones and pebbles have found temporary shelter in my purse—additions to my son's revolving rock collection. A few of them we've painted; the tiny choking hazards I've surreptitiously tossed into the trash; the larger accidents waiting to happen have been forcibly removed from his unwilling grasp. I like to think that his little-boy fascination with rocks will grow into a mature curiosity of the natural world. Of the few, simple things I want for my son, one is to be in awe of Creation.
In a couple hours I'll pick up my darling from the room with the ethereal reading nook and the barren tree house and the unsweetened oatmeal for breakfast. I'll ask him what he sang and who he played with and what he ate, and he'll tell me he doesn't remember. That's how it goes every time. Eventually, right about when we hit the interstate, he'll say, Hey mamma, I missed you while you were gone today. It never gets old. Motherhood is the ultimate manifestation of the gut speaking. Mine told me that the little one within was worth changing everything. After forty-one scary, exciting, sad, life-shaking weeks, he and I finally met.
In the years to come, I would realize my gut had been right about everything ever.
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