Oh, the guilt. It is eating me. Alive. Eating me alive, I tell you.
I promise that I am an emotional and sentimental person. Put me in front of a Nicolas Sparks movie and I am undone. And you know that Folgers commercial where the son sneaks in and makes coffee on Christmas morning? Well, I get a catch in my throat every time I see it. Because:
me = big ol' sap.
Back to the guilt. I may have mentioned that my youngest started kindergarten this year. Whirling Dervish. The little guy who cannot run out of the house to play without giving me a big sloppy kiss on whichever part of me he reaches first (his usual preference: my arm). The rambunctious, barking-like-a-puppy while in church, little man that would rather do somersaults down the sidewalk than walk like the other kids. Yeah. Him.
He got on that bus his first day like the big boy that he is and only blew me a kiss once he was rolling down the street. Like an after thought. I was anticipating tears and a wad of tissues being hastily employed. By me, not him of course.
But all I did was . . . was . . . wave and blow a kiss back. With a big dopey, sleepy smile on my face.
No tears. No sniffles. No wads of tissues.
All I could think was, "Oh, finally I can catch up on nearly seven years of having to get up at 5:30 in the a. m." Even during pregnancy he liked to gently wake me at ungodly hours of the morning. He was all elbows and knees then, I am sure of it.
See what I mean? Am I the least feeling of mothers or what? The best part of my day is when he climbs on that bus, slides into his seat and blows me a kiss out the window. And the second best part of the day is when he gets home from school, runs in the door and motions for me to sit down so he can sit on my lap and snuggle.
Such nice bookends to my day full of free time.
Counting it all joy,