is a single mama in the city, super-savvy editor, writer, video host and shameless shoe whore.
Off he goes
Tuesday, September 12, 2006 Today is Lil E's first day of co-op.
The kid is completely at ease in front of a camera. After thousands of pictures since birth, who wouldn't be? Today, the only way I could get him to smile at me for his First Day of Co-Op shot was to say the hilarious phrase du jour: Pee a river.
Pee a river, as in the phrase that slipped from my tongue early one morning this week while changing the first diaper of the day: Good God, Lil E, you've peed a river!
It worked. Fits of giggles later and several repititions of "Mommy, I pee a riiiiiiiver!" later, I had a good shot of the boy, his orange backpack and Bobo the stuffed chimpanzee peeking out as a little security for us both.
It was good to get off to a laugh because I was feeling a bit sniffly and Lil E was a bit more huggy than usual. Lil E's been in playgroup and classes and had sleepovers at my mom's, but leading him toward eight semi-structured hours a week of preschool with a backpack and thermo-lined lunchbox just seems like a big step.
As we arrived, we saw other children with their backbacks and mommies with cameras. Lil E patted my arm and said, "I have a backpack too, Mommy."
"Yes, I told him. "An orange backpack and a lunchbox with a yummy lunch inside."
I pulled him in a little tighter. My boy, my boy.
We walked down the stairs together, slowly, with Lil E holding on to the rail and me holding on to my own bag, his bag and a big bag of supplies for the classroom.
"LIL E!," another parent exclaimed. "Look, honey, Lil E is here too!"
It was The Hair-Puller and his fervently-warning mama we'd befriended at the Meet & Greet last week. The small child with a small backpack still too big for his body turned around to see us but quickly turned his attention back to the room. Lil E stopped and eyed the room as well.
He was quiet for just a beat and then, "Toys!"
"Yes!" I said, a sigh of relief for the toys.
In the room, the kids all dashed off to the play kitchens and plastic wonderment. I sat down to fill out a form and fill in the teachers.
"If he asks for paci and Bobo, just know it is his pacifier and stuffed monkey, there in the front pocket of his backpack," and just as I whispered the words, I conjured up the emotion I was so hoping wouldn't take hold.
Out of the center of the room, already full of trucks and baby dolls, Lil E emerged with a familiar look on his face. Another child started to cry as his mother swiftly exited the room. Lil E caught on, pointed to his backpack and let out a little squawk.
"Paaaaaaci. Bobohhhhhhh. Paci. Bohhhhhbo," until it became one word, "Pacibobo! Pacibobo."
I fished it out for him, handed it over, hugged him and got up to go.
The co-op's Kiss & Good-bye policy is there for a reason and a good reason, I agreed. I tried to comply as quickly and lovingly as I could. I bent down, hugged him, told him I loved him and would be back later.
I love you, I love you. Bye-bye, my sweets. See you later, I whispered.
And then, as a kind teacher scooped him up, I fumbled my way out of the baby gate and up to the parent room.
Big breath. I wasn't overwhelmed or over-wrought. I just hated to hear him cry when I was so convinced he would be more interested in the big bin of small balls than if I was there or not.
In the parent room, I signed out with the phone number where I could be reached, signed us up for the October outing to a pumpkin patch and chatted with another mama from Lil E's class. She was pacing and I assured her that her daughter was downstairs, wheeling a little around the room with a big smile.
She launched in like she was ready for someone to ask how this would go.
"I didn't put an ice-pack in her lunch and I'm nervous about the strawberries and string cheese. Plus, I'm going downtown and I hate to be that far away even though my mom's close by. She takes a nap at 11 like clockwork, so I don't know if she'll make it. Maybe she will just take her lamby and curl up like she does at home. I've been reading that keeping a regular sleep schedule is the best way to avoid tantrums."
I smiled.
"That's optimistic, " I said. And with that, I felt better, felt ready to go.
I couldn't hear Lil E crying from downstairs anymore and I wasn't interested in hanging around alone for muffins and coffee. Plus, I thought it might be easier for us both if Nervous Mommy and I left together.
She peeked down the stairs and I held the door to our few hours of freedom together.
"See you later, " I said to her as well, and headed down the block toward our apartment.
I did call my own mom on my way home and fought back a few tears when I relayed the details of the morning (so far) to Bruce. But I felt reassured even if that walk was quicker and a bit lonelier without a dawdling toddler marching beside me, checking out everything that could possibly be a worm on the sidewalk.
Lil E would be safe and have fun, and just getting through the first day would be a big event for us all. Pretty soon, this would all be a glorious routine.
I warmed up my cold cup of tea and got to work on a big inbox of email. There, at the top just recently pinged my way, was a message from a friend, another mother with a child Lil E's classroom and two older kids who made her much more experienced in the ways of co-op.
"I checked in before I left" she wrote, "and Lil E was playing happily. Enjoy your hours."
Those compassionate words lit up my screen. And I felt happy, supported, OK.
My boy is at co-op, not prom or college or climbing a mountain far away. These baby steps might lead him in those directions, but for now, he is just three short blocks away, playing happily.
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