On Monday, Chipmunk went to school for about an hour before his adenoid/tonsil surgery. I fretted accordingly and dropped him (“I am NOT going to circle time, you NAUGHTY MAMA! WAIT, give me ten kisses!”) off and then hovered in the hallway, watching through the window on the door.
For the first half an hour or so, I fought back tears. I took deep breaths. My son went through bins of toys, squeezing and arranging. Squeezing and arranging. It looked weird. It looked jarring. The other kids went to circle time, they danced. My son squeezed. I panicked some more, picturing all the sorts of worst case scenarios you picture when you’re already frazzled knowing you’re about to drive to the hospital for a surgical procedure on your four-year-old.
More deep breaths occurred, kind of.
I walked away for a while and then came back to check on him. He was in the circle, but squeezing and clenching his fingers in front of his face. His spot is right next to the teacher. (She listened to my suggestion to move him there, because she is awesome.)
Then I checked again twenty minutes later to find him doing show and tell. In front of the whole class. He beamed shyly, holding a baby monkey toy “buddy,” a matchbox car and then a dinosaur. He squeezed them in front of the kids and did his growling/roaring noise.
I did a little dance of joy in the hallway.
Later, when I opened the door to pick him up, his teacher asked the kids. ”Do you remember what his toys said?” And the kids growled and roared. Because my son? Is the best at roaring. They thought he was cool. He is cool.
That will be my happy thought for a long time.



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