L: “Is there anything more beautiful than this?”
L: “Why is it cooler at a higher elevation if we’re closer to the sun?’
L: “How did I go from breathing fluid to breathing air? I don’t get the whole birth process. I don’t have gills, right?”
Me: “I’ll get back to you on those questions…”
L-“I’m not nervous. I’m not nervous. I’m totally comfortable. I’m really excited. I’m just so not nervous.”
Teacher during K initiation, circle time:
“Does anyone have any feelings or thoughts he or she would like to share?
L-“Yes, I’m really, really nervous.”
Teacher: “Thank you for sharing that. Does anyone else feel that way?”
Many, many hands instantly fly upward. OF COURSE. Everyone’s petrified. Including me.
I documented L’s last evening as a seven year old. I took treats to his class the next day. His school has a great tradition of asking if anyone would like to share something they appreciate about the birthday kid. Some of the responses:
“L is a great friend and is always by my side when I need him.”
“L is my best friend.”
“If anyone ever needs any help, L’s there.”
“L is really, really funny.”
“I love how creative he is. He’s helping me learn to draw.”
“L taught me more than I ever knew about gas masks.” (Said by his teacher.)
For a seriously articulate kid, one who knows the definitions and/or history of:
….and of course, Zombie
It’s so utterly heartbreaking to have him reach the end of his rope, end of the day, still not able to say “I’m tired” and describe a series of mishaps as:
“I’m so sad. I had a great day. And now I’m really struggling with the last part of my day.”
And he bursts into tears.
These are the moments when I’d give anything, everything to trade places. To have him know that this is a moment that will pass, that there will be many moments like this one.
As if I would have heard any of that when I was seven and just having a rough couple of hours.
“Mom, it’s time to take a deep breath.”