Back to school

First and third grade started for  us this week. I was ill-prepared for the emotional freak out of watching my boy, my boy! march away from me into the mysterious recesses of his new school. It wasn’t Kindergarten after all—he stayed at preschool for Kindergarten. Nobody else was bawling. Even the kids seemed soberly resigned to it. Okay, I was soberly resigned. They were sort of excited. There was a palpable buzz. My fearless daughter disappeared into the crowd and my boy, who had admitted he did have butterflies, well, only one, actually, looked back at me once, then watched anxiously for his turn to march past the principal and give him a high five.

Walking home into the neighborhood silence I was gripped by an acute sense of vulnerability, as though I’d forgotten to get dressed, or was sleeping with the front door wide open.

Before we left our house (we live close), I told my son he needed to get on his shoes. It was time. He said he needed to use the bathroom and that he would go downstairs. Oh, nerves, I thought. He might be awhile. When it was five minutes till the bell, I checked on him, only to find him lounging on the craft table, messing about with his puzzle, nowhere near the bathroom and still without shoes. Stalling! I thought. By god, he DOESNT WANT TO GO!

My shock wasn’t so much surprise; these feelings are normal. It was my intense recognition of the feeling that got to me. This was more than a flashback to my own school-day-nerves, though it took me a day and a half to understand: this was about my book! Dear reader, you probably thought I’d dropped this subject!  Who hasn’t heard that a friend is writing a book, then asked, year after god-awful year, “How’s it comin’?” In response you get a look of dread, maybe even ashamed rage, aimed inappropriately at you. You quickly learn to stop asking. In fact, if you can’t avoid your writer friend altogether, you certainly avoid the subject of reading, books and all creative arts. Including sewing.

I’ve got at least one butterfly over this matter. The book is ready, you see. After numerous editorial back-and-forths, we’re there. I am to send a clean copy on Labor day and she’s taking it shopping. I’m metaphorically lounging around on the craft table, here. I haven’t looked at her final edits and comments. I stalled on the bio and hundred-word summary as long as I could. And as I pick away at my meaningless puzzle, feeling those sick but delicious butterfly flutters, I’m trying not to succumb to a tsunami of doubt. Was this idea weird? Stupid? Why’d I write it? What on earth possessed me to spend so much time with these people, a dysfunctional family called the Watsons? And sending it out to publishers feels like willfully exposing pale, delicate skin to the scorching sun of daylight. The cold deep waters of public opinion. Better to cover that up. Stay at home in the basement, dinking around with a jigsaw puzzle…who needs first grade? Don’t expand your horizons! Can’t we just stay in our mother’s basement for the next thirty years? It’s cool down here, and dark and safe. I’ll put my shoes on in a minute, right after I—

Face it. The moment has come. Hands are washed, hair combed. Teeth shined up. Shoes firm on feet.

One must, finally, take a deep breath,

open the front door,

and hit the pavement.