Last year raising my son was a piece of cake. I’m talking dreamy, double chocolate, with heavenly icing kind of cake… maybe chocolate sprinkles too.
Only four years old, and at home… with me.
So we had days where I might have threatened him with selling him to the gypsies. And other days I might have counted down the minutes until he went to school…
And then he grew up.
And I lack organizational skills to keep him home even longer, and I’m pretty sure SOMEONE would complain if I didn’t send him off for some proper edumication. So to school he went, my five-year old in the real world.
That is the day that parenting becomes hard. They day you are no longer in control. The days when your child falls in love with other rotten kids, and picks up other mannerisms that you would never allow in your home, and brings home some new strand of the cold virus WEEKLY…
And then, then you realize that all of those scary things that you always ignored because your kid was still safe at home eating dirt and playing with the goat are now the things knocking at your doorstep…
Holy Hell. <- that’s what your 17-year-old self screams through your now 30-year-old mother brain, when you suddenly realize that your itty bitty tiny baby that surly was just born yesterday is ready for some of those big kid talks that you swore wouldn’t need to happen until he was 20.
I’d give my pinkies, if not more, to keep him all safe at home where I am his worst influence. Where the headlines aren’t relevant, where the biggest danger is a scrapped knee and where I am in control.
But as he says, “Mommy, I just has to go to school and learn stuffs. I just has to.”