Prepare your colons.
Gus has to be in his classroom, ready to learn, by 8:00 a.m., so he typically starts panicking at home around 7:20. He sits on my bed and cries while I finish getting dressed and asks me questions like, "How can I make myself feel happy?" and "What can I think about that would make me feel not so sad?"
The answer? Nothing. Anxiety and hyper-sentimentalism are your genetic destiny. ENJOY!
I have tried everything from hand puppets to fart jokes to farting hand puppets making fart jokes to take his mind off his troubles, and you know what? THERE ARE ONLY SO MANY CANS OF REFRIED BEANS I CAN EAT BEFORE EIGHT A.M. It's just not ladylike.
By the time we get to school, he's worked himself into a frenzy about HOW CAN I LIVE WITHOUT YOU FOR THE NEXT SEVEN HOURS? I CAN'T. DON'T LEAVE ME HERE. PLEASE JUST ONE MORE KISSSSSS! Etc. etc. Etc.
When I pick him up, he says he had a great day, loves school, is all excited to walk me through the contents of his backpack, says he's looking forward to going tomorrow, and then:
Rinse, lather, repeat.
His teacher uses a story called "The Kissing Hand" to make the kids feel better. It's about a raccoon who has anxiety about his first day of school. Or, I should say, his first night of school. Gus informed me that raccoons attend kindergarten "in the night time" because they sleep during the day. (Live and learn.) Each morning, as I'm leaving, I hear Gus's teacher tell him to come get his kissing hand. According to Gus, "The kissing hand doesn't always work. Sometimes it does. But sometimes it doesn't. It's mixed up." Which is true for a lot of things. (Yes, I'm talking to you, bullet points in Microsoft Word.)
Wow! This story has gone on a bit too long, no? What is that noise I keep hearing? Almost like a giant cymbal ... Or, like, a gong or something. WEIRD.
I'm sure he'll get used to being dropped off at school and everything will be fine the end.
Changing the subject.
Oh! My new blog posts are up at Her Nashville.
They are not about children. Or school.