"Did I use to ride the short bus at Northwood?" Elias asks as we lay in bed snuggling before night night.
It's the first time I've heard him call it the short bus, instead of the little bus, and my bully-radar sounds it's heart pounding siren.
"Yes, you did." We lay face to face, arms entwined, under not one but six blankets so his tactile-seeking body can feel weighted down under layers of cotton and down and fleece, like a giant fabric hug.
"Why?" Elias asks.
Gulp.
"Because we didn't live close enough to walk," I say at first, and then in case he's asking a deeper question, "And because the short bus is for kids who need a little more help."
"But now we can walk," he says and puts his cheek on mine.
**********
I didn't mean to leave you hanging after my post on the eve of Elias's first day of school. I planned on writing that night, but fell asleep in bed with Olive after she threw up all over me with a temperature of 103.
That's parenthood for ya.
It's probably good that I didn't write, as my heart broke multiple times on Tuesday, as Elias entered first grade at Airport Heights. Who knew it would be so hard?
I hid in my office as Elias cried in the hallway--I want to see my Mommy!--and trusted my colleagues to either calm him down or make the decision to let him see me. At around 9:30 he came running to my office wanting to go home. All and all it took 45 minutes to get him to his classroom and once there he cried at the door and tried to push his way out multiple times.
The constant refrain all morning from his teachers and aides was that he would see me at recess and so when a 6th grade girl came to talk to me ten minutes before the first grade recess I told her, "I got about 8 minutes tops."
By the time I walked out to the familiar playground he was all smiles.
When the students lined up for lunch, all wide-eyed and wiggly, the bigger boy behind Elias leaned towards him and said, "Do you still want to go home and see your mommy." Not an ounce of kindness in his tone.
"He's fine; he's happy to be here at school," I said to the boy who didn't yet know I was Elias's mother.
The part of me who is not a student counselor thought: I got your number kid!
"You better walk quickly so I'm not late for my lunch," the boy said to Elias, who acted as if he didn't hear-- but I know my boy, he hears everything.
And oh, the Grizzly Bear Mama in me wanted to sweep my son away; but all I could say was: We do not threaten students at Airport Heights.
Breathe, Christy, breathe.
And then the call came that Olive had a fever. And I had to choose between my babies.
All I wanted to do was walk to her daycare, scoop Olive up and sniff her innocent baby head-- but I opted to stay at school with Elias and let Nick get Olive. Even though I was hiding from Elias when I saw him in the hallway and not letting him come to my office, I made the call that he needed me present more than my eight-month old daughter. She could wait, I thought, even though I felt ripped down the middle, splayed in half, wearing the mask of a professional as my heart splintered in two.
Elias's afternoon went better, no tears, no attempts to flee, but the part of me who has always been a social animal couldn't help wondering what the other children thought of my child.
And seeing him in school, in a regular classroom, makes his differences shine in a way I usually don't notice when its just our quirky family of four. He can't blend in and I'm realizing, he never will.
And sure, maybe I should know this by now, but sometimes it still hits me in the gut and I'm the one caught crippled and exposed. My son is different. He's disabled, handicapped. A boy with special needs.
Duh?
But when you focus on strengths and gifts, after awhile you stop seeing the gaps. When you celebrate every tiny milestone, you spend your life applauding instead of racing and then suddenly your boy is in first grade with all these kids who move and talk and see and breathe with ease.
And you can't breathe.
"What was the hardest thing about school today?" Nick and I asked Elias that night as we sat at the kitchen table.
"Getting use to it," he replied.
Well said! I wanted to say, as I too will need to get use to witnessing Elias in school.
On Wednesday, his second day, his lip quivered, and tears gathered, but he made it to class without my help and never once tried to flee.
I ran into him by accident towards the end of the day, I walked around the corner and there he stood, with his trademark canes, his aide by his side. "I know you," I said.
"I thought I was going to Camp Fire," Elias responded, referring to the after school program on campus.
"You are Bud, I was just on my way to talk to the PE teacher."
"Camp Fire, I love Camp Fire," Elias said, leaving me in the hallway, pounds lighter.
And I'd like to end here.
And not tell you that he cried and pushed and screamed when I dropped him at Campfire this morning for our 8:00 staff meeting. I'd like to say he walked to class easily and happily when the first bell rang.
But I guess "getting use to it" will take more than a day.
For both of us.