In the middle

Her first day of preschool was delayed by Hurricane Katrina, postponed from early August until mid September.

She was so excited to wear her little skort and her sparkly pink shoes, her Kim Possible back pack, and her tag with her bus number on it. And I made sure her hair was perfect and curly and adorned with a pink ribbon.

Someone later gave me a sticker that said, "Hug me: First Day of School Mom." And everyone understood what that meant.

Today she starts middle school. Can I have another sticker please?

 

 And yes, after playing cool all morning, like it was no big deal and I was just a big old pain in the butt, she did turn to me just as the bus drove up, hugged me, kissed me and said, "Bye mom."

Kiss me goodbye

How many times have I done it?

How many times have I walked out of my room, out of my closet and past the sleeping -- snoring -- child all tangled up in her pink sheets, and gone down the stairs and out the door without stopping to give her one more kiss goodbye?

Because I was running late?

Because I was aggravated at my lack of wardrobe choices that day?

Because I was cranky?

Because I simply did not want to wake her up?

I watched a mother on TV last night, one who had lost her child for 18 years because of the whims of a madman. For 18 years she lived with not knowing where her little girl was.  Not knowing if she was hurt or even alive. Not knowing that she would not see her daughter again until she was a 20-something mother herself. 

And for 18 years she had lived knowing that, on that last fateful morning, she had neglected to kiss her litle girl goodbye because she was in a hurry.

How many times?

Not that many actually. But too many. Even if it was only once.

I shall not any more.