Posted in Kindergarten

42 Minutes

Lisa Smiley PhotographyDear Katie,

42 minutes.

That’s how long I have to wait to see your beautiful face and wrap you in my arms.

When we dropped you off at camp this morning, there were tears.

Yours as we said goodbye and mine as I got into the car.

I’m hoping that yours dried sooner than mine.

And now I wait.

40 minutes.

Here in the quiet of the livingroom, amidst your princess shoes, Curious George books and American Girl doll.

I wait.

I would give anything to keep you here at home with me.

But, you’re ready to spread your wings and I have to encourage you to do exactly that.

It’s not your job to make sure I’m happy…it’s mine to make sure that YOU are.

37 more minutes.

This fall, as we send you off to kindergarten, I will struggle to let you go.

But, ultimately I will release your hand and watch you pull away and thrive.

And I’m certain that my pride will eclipse my sadness.

In time.

With a heart bursting with love,


This post is linked up with Just Write, over at the extraordinary ordinary.


I have tremendous respect for this week’s Small Moments Mondays guest poster. Gigi, from Kludgy Mom, truly inspires me. Though she has a million things going on at any given moment, she does them all well…and with class.

She is helpful and generous, driven and straight forward. I am always learning something from Gigi, whether it’s how to value myself as a blogger or how to keep my sense of humor.

This piece took my breath away when I first read it and I have been so eager to share it with you.

I could thank you a million times over, Gigi, and that still wouldn’t begin to cover my gratitude for sharing this story with us.

Threshold — by Gigi

I love the word, the idea that there is a space in the universe that is neither here nor there; the midpoint between two states of being; the crossing over place.

The word swells with its own definition. Threshold: the crossing over point holds something: promise, loss, change, adventure, comfort. One must pass through to receive that which it holds.

Boy Wonder was 3 years and 3 months old when he crossed one such threshold.

It was is his first day of preschool. This wasn’t like any typical preschool. This was developmental preschool; a program to assist special needs kids.

The school was about 8 miles away from our home. They wanted me to put my 3 year old who wasn’t potty trained and barely spoke a word onto a bus. They said it was the kids’ favorite part of the day. With much trepidation, we agreed to try it.

Boy Wonder played outside in the rocks, Buzz Lightyear backpack on his back, while I stood at the curb, gazing far down the street, waiting for the bus’ arrival.

The bus groaned and squealed as it came down the street. It looked like a monstrosity pulling up to our driveway.

It was time to go.

Metal scraped onto more metal. The bus driver was pulling back the weighty handle that opened the bus door.

Whoooooooooooooooooosh. Air discharged from the mechanism as the folding door opened.

The threshold loomed.

The bus rumbled, sputtered, heaved with great noise; yet around me, a quiet void.

Boy Wonder walked to the bus, his twinkling eyes growing wider at the sight. A moment of recognition that he was to get on, and then, a turn, backward, at me.

I dropped to one knee, placed my hands on his shoulders, and looked into his eyes, the olive-like eyes that had only recently begun to look directly back into my own.

“Have fun, okay? You have a good day, and I’ll see you in just a few hours.”

We hugged. I turned him around by his shoulders, grabbed his hand and braced him as he stepped up onto the first stair of the bus.

The bus monitor was at the top step, hand outreached to pull Boy Wonder onto the second step, and then the third.

As he crossed over the threshold, Boy Wonder let go of my hand as he grabbed onto hers.

Hope surrounded him.

The bus door screeched again shut. Whoooooooooooooooosh.

The tears began.

Flash forward. The first day of kindergarten did not have the weighty fanfare of two years prior. No, I walked Boy Wonder through the automatic doors of the elementary school that day, settled into his classroom, and left the school excited for his new adventure.

But one morning the following week, we arrived at the front door of the school.

With a hushed whoooooooooooooosh, the automatic doors glided open. Boy Wonder stopped.

“I can go in by myself, Mommy.”

Wooooooooooooooosh. The automatic doors glided shut.

“Okay, buddy.” As I did two years prior, I dropped to one knee, looked him in his olive eyes, told him to have a good day and turned him to face the door.

Woooooooooooooooosh. The automatic doors glided open.

I stood up. Boy Wonder walked through the doors. Hope surrounded him.

Woooooooooooooooosh. The automatic doors glided shut, as if punctuating my silent conversation with myself: “He is growing away from me.”

I looked at the doors, but was not able to see through them.

Woooooooooooooooosh. The automatic doors glided open.There was Boy Wonder. He blew me a kiss, waved, turned and ran down the hall.

I watched his backpack bounce rhythmically up and down as he ran.

Wooooooooooooooooosh. The automatic doors glided shut.

The tears began.

Our children, and we, grow in the small moments: the moments where they leave us on this side of the threshold.

Now that you’ve read Gigi’s beautiful words here, please go read some of my favorite posts: The Man Who Braved the Cold, Waiting is the Hardest Part, Let’s Rename the Whoopie Pie.

Okay, choosing those three was so incredibly tough. Why? Because not only is Gigi prolific, but she is consistently awesome. I could have easily pointed you to this, this, or this.

You can also find Gigi over at She Posts, where she’s keeping us all up to date on what’s happening in the blogosphere.

Please go like Gigi on Facebook (she has such an awesome landing page) and follow her on Twitter. I’m certain that you’ll love her as much as I do.

About me

Nichole Beaudry @NicholeBeaudry Location: Northern California
Each and every day, I strive to appreciate the wonder, beauty, and whimsy in the small moments, the moments that, when strung together, form a lifetime.
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