Middle School

I sent this beautiful person off to middle school for the first time this week.

She wasn't wearing the war paint when I hustled her onto the wrong bus at 7 am.  She was dressed in a pair of orange shorts and a t-shirt, an outfit she hadn't agonized over very much, by the looks of it.  She was nonchalant and relaxed, but as I watched the wrong bus carry her away into the darkness of the early morning, my insides seized up unexpectedly and I had the unnerving desire to chase after the bus screaming, "Come back, sweet girl!!"  What the hell happened?

The overwhelming sense of worry that overtook me that morning was completely unexpected.  After realizing that the number on the bus that my daughter was riding was NOT the number of the bus she was supposed to be riding, I hurried home and called our public school transportation office.  The rather bored secretary confirmed that Emma would arrive at her own school after the high school kids on board were dropped off at their school.

That settled, I fed my fourth grader and sent her out to catch her bus, then made breakfast for a gleeful three year old, who couldn't believe how fabulous it felt to have her mama all to herself again.  Still butterflies gnawed away at my stomach lining every time I thought about my eleven year old trying to find her classes, open her locker, and contend with the girls she always described as "popular" punctuated with air quotes and an annoyed roll of the eyes.  "Dear Lord," I prayed, "Please don't let anyone crush my baby's delicate feelings today!"

Of course you know that I cannot and should not protect her from the "mean girls" and the occasional jerky teacher, but, oh y'all, I want to SO badly! 

I was waiting for her the minute she got off the bus and have never been so happy to hear her recount every minor detail of her day.  She did fine, everybody!  I know.  You weren't worried a bit.

And now, having survived the first week, my heart rate has slowed a little.  Letting go really blows, friends. 

Love,
Meredith