So. I put Bella on the bus at 8:30. All the parents were there with cameras, laughing, smiling, the kids looked fresh-scrubbed and ready to go. Bella was giggling and jostling with her buddies, calling out dibs on who she'd be sitting with. One of the other mothers came over to say she was so happy they were back in school and we all smiled and nodded. Then the bus pulled up, we all cheered, and I leaned down to hug my daughter.
"Have a great day, honey!" My voice begins to crack. "I love you.." I can't talk anymore. The tears rise up, splashing over. She looks up at me and smiles, shaking her head.
"Oh, Mom. I knew you'd cry." She kisses me, pats my back reassuringly, then climbs onto the bus.
No matter how thrilled I am to have her un-bored and out of my hair, my mind and heart just can't get past the fact that eight years ago, she was an impossible dream, and seven years ago I sat in my doctor's office with tears streaming down my face watching a tiny heartbeat on an ultrasound. And now she's in first grade, and time is marching on and oh damn, I've got to stop because I can barely see the keyboard through the tears.
I am such a sap.
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