It is the eve before you start kindergarten. I just went into your room to lay out you some clean socks to go with your outfit. I just washed them. I’ve packed your book bag and told you everything in it. I went out today and bought you a towel to have at rest time. I washed it so it would smell like home. I want your day to be perfect. I’ve gotten ready for the 1st day of school as a teacher but not as a parent. You will be riding the bus. I can’t believe I’m letting you. I’ll follow the bus to school in the van with Daddy to make sure you get to your class.
I’m nervous. I know you’ll love it, but I’ll miss you – so will Faith! This day just proves how big you are getting – you can ride a bike without training wheels and are learning to play baseball. I love to watch you learn new things, but I hate for you to get bigger! I wish you could be my baby forever. When I tell you that, you say you will. Someday, I know that won’t be your response.
How can I tell you as you leave tomorrow, you are not only leaving our house to head to school but also leaving a little piece of childhood behind to head out into the world? I wish I could say, “Stay with me just a little longer,” like you tell me sometimes. But instead I’ll say, “Go and have fun. It’ll be a great day,” and my heart breaks for the baby you once were and the incredible man I know you will become.
Grandmother King always says, “Stubborn or strong-willed children make great adults.” You’ll be a really great adult! I love you, Colin. I love that you want to grow up and go to ninja school to learn all the ninja secrets. I love that you sing, “There’s gonna be a hallway tonight” instead of heartache tonight. I love that you call your cleats your “pleats.” I love that you have to point your finger and tilt your head every time you wink. I love that you wear cowboy boots with your shorts.
And I love that you are big enough to go to kindergarten tomorrow, but, oh, how my heart will ache when you leave. “Will you miss me, Mommy?” is what you asked as I read you a story at bedtime and tucked you in. Yes, son. I will miss you, more than you will ever know.