Re: Our Babies Starting School Today
Rachael,
Joshua and Charlie started Kindergarten today. Gilead started PreK4. And Calvin — our resident big boy — is in second grade now, if you can stand it.
I know that you planned to homeschool for as long as you could. It made sense, because you always were one to make the most of your time with your family, especially in the last few years. And because I knew one day our boys would end up at the same public school, maybe even in the same classes as they grew, it felt inevitable that our boys would wander the same paths. What I didn't expect was doing this without you.
Oak Grove was my school first, which I know you knew. The same outdoor walkways, the same cafeteria smell. It was a sweet level of nostalgia that you understood my sentimental heart cherished. Back when I was my mom's small, anxious kiddo who didn't think I needed school — because who would my sisters have to look up to if I was gone — I was bribed into going to school and not crying every single day. And somehow I still ended up as a teacher. God's got a sense of humor, alright.
Our babies went to school today, Rachael.
Yet there's a big gap in my mind as to how I expected this day to go, and the reality. I expected us both there, both hyping up our boys, both navigating the challenges that come with a new school year, both watching our babies grow up faster than we'd like. But I know you would be so proud of your mom and me for doing the hard thing without you.
There's a set of murals outside the kindergarten building that weren't there when I was a kiddo, but it's one of my favorite places on campus. The medallions depict the stages of growth for a mighty oak tree, starting with a seed, then a taproot, then a shoot, then a seedling, and so on.
The first day I had Calvin stand in front of it was in kindergarten. My sweet little taproot. I cried hard that day, which I know you knew, because I texted you those photos and you shared in my disbelief that my first baby was starting school.
I did it again when he started first grade, as a little shoot. I cried less that time, but last year you were still there to remind me how sweet this moment is, even when I felt all the feelings about it.
On Thursday, I took Charlie's photo in front of the taproot mural, and I could see his excitement, Rachael. It was a balm to my soul, especially knowing that Josh and Charlie would be in the same grade — that they would always have a friend close by.
When I look back at the photos I snapped, I thought a long time about how you'd have said something both funny and heartwarming about the school nailing down the metaphor for us. Even now, I hear you in my head saying this is another sweet detail that God wove for me.
Oak Grove, for me, was where I was rooted. It's where I grew and bloomed. And it's where our boys will do the same. Something about that sits heavy and delightful in my heart. My family moved after the start of my sixth-grade year, and I remember thinking I'd never end up back in Hattiesburg. Yet here I live — with the husband who never left Hattiesburg, with my boys attending the same school I did, having found my best friend in the town I thought I'd never return to. God weaves these details in, if we're willing to look for them. And that's been the resounding theme of the last few months, even when looking at each sweet moment stings with what was taken and what should have been.
You always shared that you were worried about Joshua starting school. But let me tell you — Joshy walked in and went straight for the table where he could color with some of his new classmates. He gave me a huge hug, leapt onto me, and man, I felt overwhelmed with gratitude and joy in that moment. I've always told you I feel a kinship with Josh, and I hope every time he sees me, he's reminded of how much his mama loved him. How much she is still loved. You would have been so proud. He didn't hesitate when he walked into Mrs. Kay's class — Calvin's kindergarten teacher, even. Another way God was looking out, of course. He waved to Lady and me from the table, ready to do the dang thing. It was like he'd been going to that school for ages. I don't know why that undid me a little, watching him be so sure of himself in a place where I walked as an anxiety-ridden little girl. But he is your child. Tackling life by making friends, walking in with confidence and a smile.
You worried about this day for him. I wish I could tell you in person that he's fine. He's better than fine, actually. He's exactly the boy you'd hoped he'd turn out to be, and he doesn't even know it yet.
Gilead had a harder morning, though he did give me a big hug and showed me his new Mario shirt. Tears at drop-off, holding onto Lady like a lifeline. But it's his first day of school — any school, ever — so I'm not worried the way I might otherwise be. He misses you dearly, that much is obvious. Just as we all do, but you and I both know that Gil was your snuggle buddy. And I think he's feeling exactly as we all are, trying to figure out the world again without our Rachael there. But he will be so loved there, Rach. Today was just Thursday for a four-year-old whose whole world got bigger overnight. He will find his footing, and he will be just as confident when he walks into Kindergarten next year, just like his big brother.
There's a sign outside the kindergarten hall — "Ready to Bloom at OGE" — surrounded by paper flowers and a little bench, made for a sweet photo op. I took a photo of our kindergarteners together. Then we took a family picture in front of it: Brad and me with Calvin, Charlie, and Joshua — Josh grinning like he'd always belonged in that lineup. Had Gilead been in the photo-taking mood, I'd have pulled him in too.
But here's the thing I have to tell you, even though you already know it, even though you're the one who taught me this kind of love exists in the first place: they feel like my babies too. Not instead of yours. Alongside. The way you'd want it, I think. The way we always said it would be, back when we still thought we'd be doing this side by side, two mamas gearing up to do the school-age era together, watching four boys grow up tangled together on purpose. Eventually we'll add Mayhew to the mix, but for today, our big boys were brave and excited, and a little nervous — in that way every first day of school made me.
I wanted so badly to text you the pictures. It would have been so on brand for you to make a joke about our boys posing and cheesin', or not cheesin', in the photos we make them take. To make me laugh even as I wanted to cry sending my baby to Kindergarten. I kept picking up my phone like it would just be that easy. Like you'd just be there, three dots blinking, already halfway to a joke, making the sentimental moment mean that much more by making me laugh — both of us sweating in the late July mug, pretending it was just perspiration in our eyes and not tears.
You would be so proud. Of all of them. Our seedlings, taproots, shoots, and saplings — every single one of them blooming right on schedule. And while I hate that you aren't here to see it with me, I'm blessed that I get to walk this with them.
I'll keep taking the pictures. I'll keep pulling your boys into my photos as long as they'll allow me, and I'll keep my arms open for them, because it feels like keeping you close, too. When it comes to moments like today, some things you do for keeps, whether or not the person you're doing them for can write back. But I know you'd be proud. I know you'd be making me cry about how much I've grown and bloomed too, since I was that fearful girl starting school for the first time. And you'd be right. And you'd still make me belly laugh in the very next beat, while I wiped dried mascara from under my eyes.
Just know — our babies are together. Just like we'd always wanted.
Love, Amanda
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Email: amandag@kindredforkeeps.com
