 The Bus Is Coming! Nancy Rosenberg Published Publishing Information Published by Parenthood.com, The Frisco Enterprise Publishing Information Published by Parenthood.com, The Frisco Enterprise Today my five-year-old daughter spread her wings and flew out of the nest. Like a giant swooping hawk, the big yellow school bus came and gobbled her up, as I knew it would, and I have had five years to prepare myself, but I'm afraid that it wasn't quite enough time. She's ready, but I'm a mess. As she hopped aboard, her red hair bow bobbing jauntily, I said a prayer for her and for the other children aboard the bus, a hope that the world they encounter will treat them gently. I prayed her teachers will see beneath the layers and will realize her warmth, her gentle spirit, her marvelous sense of humor, and I hope they will teach her numbers and letters, but I also hope they will help her learn how to be a better person, how to be fair and kind and patient. In short, I hope they will continue the job that I've been attempting. I walked home slowly from the bus stop, wishing for a small hand to hold. I went upstairs to look around her quiet room. Her nightgown, tossed on the bed, looked too big, but the reality is that it's actually a bit short. The clothes in her closet are a snapshot of both of us: here's the purple velvet dress with satin bows (her pick), the navy jumper with white petticoat (mine), the red glitter shoes, "just like Dorothy's in the Wizard of Oz!" The toys look lonely. Her favorite doll, Josephina, needs to have her hair fixed, and the Barbies haven't been touched in months. Instead, a stack of ruled notebook paper and a clutch of pencils lies scattered across the floor. She's been doing "homework" now for weeks, clearly ready for the road that lies ahead. I marvel at how short my time alone with her has been. If I sat still in a corner for an hour or so I could count the number of days she's been alive--literally (it's somewhere around 2,000). I remember her first word, first step, the feel of her nursing, the gentle tug at my heart in the still night. For years, I've mentally charted her growth, measured not in feet and inches but in the progression from "ma ma" to "Mommy" to "Mom." The first time she shortened my moniker to one syllable I felt a pang of regret; babyhood was slipping away, like grains of sand through my clenched fist. My husband says I'm sentimental. With each step my daughter takes towards independence, he cheers, and I must say that his enthusiasm has helped alleviate my wistfulness. And he's learning to appreciate my sentimentality, I think. As our daughter boarded the bus, I wiped a tear and turned to find the video camera trained, not on the disappearing school bus, but on me. I fight the urge to feel sorry for myself. Who will I bake cookies with? Who will go with me to the store? Who will I play with now? As I ponder our few years of decadent solitude, I realize that I've missed out some by staying home with her. I've achieved less professionally, I don't drive a leather-lined BMW, and my floor is not covered in expensive hardwood or ceramic tile. My husband and I don't take the exotic vacations we dream about, and we have yet to experience Disney World. Yet for the few material things we lack, I feel very rich. There are many for whom working is not an option. There are some who just don't have the temperament to stay at home with small children. But there are also plenty of mothers who are torn, who work for the fancy car or the hardwood floors, but who, deep down, would rather be at home with their kids. For those moms, for those who feel the least bit of regret at missing out on the small sacred moments that make up a young child's day, to them I offer the experience of a mom who has just released her child into the clutch of the big yellow school bus: Enjoy it now--the bus is coming. |
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