Piece of Me
Since the day it arrived, Tate’s worn her new, mini-sized butterfly backpack around the house like a shirt. She puts it on when she wakes up and doesn’t take it off until it won’t fit on the swing, or she needs to do somersaults.
She’s ready. Young for her age, yet so obviously ready I couldn't keep her at home another year, as so many parents in our community do.
From the moment we started talking about going to school, Tate was all in. She had a million questions, as always, but they came from pure curiosity, never really any doubt or uncertainty about going.
The night before her first day of Kindergarten, lying on her bed together reading, fingering the thin black strap of my nightie, Tate asks, “Could I take this to school tomorrow?”
I look down and giggle, “This nightie? Why sweetheart?”
“I just want to.”
“No,” I answer gently, “I don’t think that’d be a good idea.”
I, then, continue reading our story, amused at her silliness.
It’s one of her old favorites, a fairytale outdated in its low regard for women and a child’s capacity for fear; quickly we’re back immersed in its terror and language. When it ends, I turn the lights out and wish her sweet dreams. She's up a while, no doubt playing out all of tomorrow’s possibilities.
Once I know she’s finally out, I creep back into her room and soak up her sweet sleeping profile, the same one she’s worn since the nights she slept in the cradle beside my bed. So big, and so small - all in one lovely little face.
The next morning is busy. I help Tate get dressed, insisting she not wear her dress backward the way she wants to, and tie her hair up in high pigtails. She looks just like Cindy WooHoo.
After a chatty breakfast and a couple of photos in the yard to mark the day, I can’t find Tate. I go searching, calling, “Tate? Tate, where are you?” as we don’t want to be late.
I find my little one in my bedroom, digging through my underwear drawer. “What're you doing, darling?”
“I’m going to take one of these to school with me today.”
“What? No, no, no, you’re not. Why do you even want to?” I remember last night when she asked to bring what I was going to sleep in.
“Please, Mama. I just need to.”
I sit myself down on the bed and look at her, “Why, baby?”
“I just want something with me that smells like you, that’s all.”
My heart melts. As if there already weren’t enough emotions coursing through me today, now I’m drenched in love.
“Ahhhhh, okay. What a good idea. Let’s find something else though, how about one of my scarves?”
Off we go, her hand in mine, to the front closet. She weeds through my scarves, letting her nose pick the one I’ve worn most recently. Little, brave Tate stuffs that one deep into her butterfly backpack and then, satisfied, puts the pack back on.
“I’m ready, now, Mama.”
On the way, I worry that perhaps she’s covered up her nervousness, that maybe I’ve missed it. That maybe she is too young.
Until it’s time to say goodbye.
She throws me a confident, smiling wave and marches into the classroom. I stand there, alone, quickly calculating how many hours until I get to pick her up, eyes stinging, awed by her clear and constant ‘knowing’.
