I shuffled around, half-asleep, grumbling about the ungodly hour of darkness and how we would need to be getting to bed much earlier to make sure that mama didn’t feel quite like a collapsed soufflé every morning, add infinity or the rest of the school year or whatever. My son, with his big smile. Excitedly chattering about his lunch, his snack bag, his backpack, his shoes (“the new ones? do I get to wear the new ones?”). Putting on cologne and his Daddy’s deodorant. He was proud of himself. He was excited.
He was up at 5:30am. Up and ready to meet his newest adventure: Kindergarten. Had it not been for the multiple times I had to reign him back in, he would have been dressed, packed up, breakfast down, and ready to walk out the door at 6am. He might have even tried waiting for me on the front porch, if I hadn’t warned him to keep his little self “put” at the breakfast table.
And I was in motion. Mom motion. Writing his name on his backpack (how did I forget to do that weeks ago?), filling up his drink holder, packing his lunch, waking up his sister, details and more details and the sort of last minute things that Moms the world over would be tending to on a day like today.