School

It was hard to send my kids back to school after Christmas break. I truly love staying up late and sleeping late. At the end of the first day, my girls came home exhausted. I knew the transition for Hilary would be tricky, she was up until after 1 a.m. the day before. I was surprised Sarabeth was struggling.

"I couldn't sleep last night. I don't know what was wrong. I felt like I was back in elementary school. I'm 18 years old, I wasn't stressed like back then, I was actually excited to go back." Her words took me back.

When Sarabeth was little, I hated sending the kids back to school after Christmas break, summer, spring break, even a long weekend. It wasn't because I wanted to sleep later. It was the hurt in my heart at seeing them leave. It was especially hard on Sarabeth.

In the car on the way to school, I would pray-both outloud and silently. Elisabeth would often chatter about an upcoming event or sing to herself. She would try to engage Sarabeth in conversation. I could hardly look over, for fear of her reaction. I didn't want to see the sadness in her eyes. Don't get me wrong, I wanted to reassure her, everything would be fine. But I knew her too well. It took more than a day to adjust to change, yes, even the change of the routine of a weekend.

After parking, we'd walk to where the children were lining by classrooms. Hugs and kisses to Elisabeth as she'd take her place in line. I'd try to get Sarabeth in line, but she'd insist on walking with me to take Hilary to hers. We'd stand next to her line, her hand in mine. We both knew the exact timing the prolonging had to end. An extended embrace, I'd pull her hands from around me and hold onto them for a second. A kiss, words of encouragement and then I had to look into those blue-green eyes. That was the hardest part. She didn't have to say it, but her eyes pleaded, "please take me home. I don't want to be here." She gripped my hands tighter, but would not look away. The familiar lump formed in my throat. I didn't want to look away. I wanted to whisk her back to the car. I wanted my little girl happy. I wanted to see her smile. I didn't want her to see me cry. But she'd never turn her eyes away until I did. One last squeeze, and I'd turn my back on her.

I watched from the car. Sarabeth's long hair, cascaded down her back in soft curls. The sides were pulled neatly up with a big bow. She stood unnaturally stiff, her dalmation backpack lost its cheeriness as it perched over her shoulders. The teacher came out and the class began to file into the building. I continued to watch, hoping she wouldn't look back. She looked like a soldier, marching to battle. Her hair didn't swing. Her curls didn't bounce the way they should. A happy child's hair just does that, it is the bounce in their steps. Sarabeth's hair never moved.

I'd like to say this only happened a few times, but that would be an understatement. This went on for years, and years. The backpack changed, her hairstyle changed, her brother began driving her to school, but the look in her eyes never did change. The pleading words of here eyes that begged me not make her go were always there. As she walked away, her hair stayed still.

Next fall, I will take Sarabeth to college. All I want is to see joy in her eyes, and as she walks, I want to see bouncing curls.