I Hear Them

Milestone: I got to drop off my oldest son at Kindergarten this morning.

It was unexpected since I am normally at school for several hours before he starts his day. However, my wife caught whatever bug is wreaking havoc in Southern Maine and was duking it out all night and morning with the thing.

She lost.

So, it was getting the boys up and fed and out the door that started my day today. It consisted of the normal stuff of six and three year old boys. Sock puppets to urge them out from beneath the covers. Bargains made about how many more bites qualify as "finished." Music that gets things moving, but also gets stuck in your head all day. Toothpaste-splattered sinks. Snacks tucked away in a new camo lunch box. And hugs. Lots and lots of hugs.

But it also consisted of that milestone. For the first time, I got to watch as my son left my embrace and well-wishes for a great day, and skipped, literally skipped, into school. My hope is that the drop-off monitors (my apologies if I am botching the acceptable terminology here) could not see me clearly as I grinned from ear to ear like an idiot watching Eli skip into school. I also hope that the parent in back of me in the SUV wasn't too wound up about my somewhat questionable driving skills as I tried to watch Eli for as long as possible through every mirror and/or window in my car.

So many thoughts crashed through my mind at once. It was like one of those scenes in the movies where they do one of those really fast montages of the dude's life or a significant chunk of time. I saw all the usual stuff: birth, first steps, cuddling with stories, etc, all punctuated by the question, "When did he get old enough for Kindergarten," and the statement, "Take care of him."

Because it hit me. He is going off for the day to learn how to learn. To learn how to communicate. To share. To play. OK, he's got that one nailed, but he's learning to play with his peers. He's off learning for the day. Without me. Without my wife.

I wanted more than ever to go into his classroom to make sure that his teacher knows all that she needs to know to help him succeed. I wanted her to know that he has been sick the past few days and just isn't himself. I wanted her to know that if you want him at his best, give him room to think and create. I wanted her to know that if she wants to see something amazing, give him a bunch of Legos and watch him create something, complete with all the backstory and explanation you could ever dream of. I wanted her to know that he can read way more than what he is being given. I wanted her to know that he needs to be outside, whether it's playing, going for a nature walk, collecting stuff for science, or just standing with eyes closed and head raised breathing in the fresh air. I wanted her to know that sometimes he doesn't stand up for himself. That he's shy around new people, but a born entertainer around people in the inner circle. I wanted her to know that his brain works a mile a minute and he gets swept up in these elaborate plans where he invents mind-blowing contraptions, and that he sometimes tunes out what's around him. I wanted her to know that when he, like all little boys, has sat still for too long he struggles with self-control. I wanted her to know what makes him tick. I wanted her to know how to help him learn best.

And I realized something.

Right there in the parking lot, with Black SUV on my tail.

Nearly every parent of my students that waves goodbye as the bus pulls away from the house, or watches their son or daughter get out of the car and walk into school, is thinking the same thing about their child and me. "Mr. Coleman, my son had a rough weekend at home. He may be a bit out of it today." "Mr. Coleman, my daughter is just longing for more time to read in school." "Mr. Coleman, I know my son can be, well, an annoying 14 year old, because he's, well, a 14 year old. He's got a good heart. Cut him some slack today." "Mr. Coleman, my daughter is loving having more freedom with owning her learning. Keep it coming." "Mr. Coleman, my son is bored. Push him. See what he can do."

"Mr. Coleman, please don't give up on my child just because it would be the easy thing to do..."

I hear them.

I hear my own voice join the chorus of parents, wishing, hoping, praying, for their son to return safely at the end of the day. For their daughter to grow as a learner. For their son to rise to his potential.

I hear them.

I'm listening.

I will do all that I can, knowing that I have your Eli with me today...