שלום כיתה א'...
פורסם: 26 אוגוסט 2013 09:27
משהו קטן שכתבתי בדרך לעבודה ביום הראשון של שנה"ל בשנה שעברה... בהצלחה לכולם מחר, ובכלל.
Seven Minutes. Him and you. Then he'll be out in the open waters, beyond your reach, and you'll be hoping for the best, and trusting that his toolbox, assembled over a little more than six years, sets him in good stead for what's ahead.
You try and collect your thoughts, and serve them up in the best possible fashion to your six year old boy who is most likely wondering what was in your drink this morning.
So you tell him that it will be interesting and wonderful, that he will discover new things and make new friends. You tell him that he can be whatever he wants to be if he tries, and that even if he encounters problems, we'll always be there for him, loving him just the same (and then he asks 'how about if I decide to be a pirate?').
You remind him to be kind to others and be aware of kids in the corner that are having a rough time and those who don't have friends. That one he gets the first time.
Then you go down the inevitable lane of when you were a kid. He wants to know more about his mother's experiences - because they were surely more similar to his, being more recent, and not taking place halfway across the world.
The squeaky-clean new bag and uniform tell the tale, and total strangers toot and stop on the way to wish you hatzlacha, and you're beaming together with him.
Walking in, he's like a fish in water - already putting his books where the teacher instructed, showing his new mates his new bag (who all have the same bag with the slightest variations - somebody's made a buck). You feel quite like Nemo's father and assume that your kid got his steel from the other end of the gene pool. You look around and realize that you're not the only one trying not to wear your heart on your sleeve, despite your parental instincts.
The teacher announces that it's time for the parents to go. Some parents go for the last kiss, most are fended off by their overly- embarrassed kids. You go for the (secret/Madagaskar-penguin) handshake, and you're both laughing as you turn your back and walk out.
As you're capturing that last moment on your way out of the class, that grin on his face reassures you - he'll be right mate, he'll be just fine.
Walking outside, through a huddle of eye-swelled parents, one mother asks you for a tissue, and you shrug apologetically. Yep, you're normal. You're just another parent whose kid has started school.
Seven Minutes. Him and you. Then he'll be out in the open waters, beyond your reach, and you'll be hoping for the best, and trusting that his toolbox, assembled over a little more than six years, sets him in good stead for what's ahead.
You try and collect your thoughts, and serve them up in the best possible fashion to your six year old boy who is most likely wondering what was in your drink this morning.
So you tell him that it will be interesting and wonderful, that he will discover new things and make new friends. You tell him that he can be whatever he wants to be if he tries, and that even if he encounters problems, we'll always be there for him, loving him just the same (and then he asks 'how about if I decide to be a pirate?').
You remind him to be kind to others and be aware of kids in the corner that are having a rough time and those who don't have friends. That one he gets the first time.
Then you go down the inevitable lane of when you were a kid. He wants to know more about his mother's experiences - because they were surely more similar to his, being more recent, and not taking place halfway across the world.
The squeaky-clean new bag and uniform tell the tale, and total strangers toot and stop on the way to wish you hatzlacha, and you're beaming together with him.
Walking in, he's like a fish in water - already putting his books where the teacher instructed, showing his new mates his new bag (who all have the same bag with the slightest variations - somebody's made a buck). You feel quite like Nemo's father and assume that your kid got his steel from the other end of the gene pool. You look around and realize that you're not the only one trying not to wear your heart on your sleeve, despite your parental instincts.
The teacher announces that it's time for the parents to go. Some parents go for the last kiss, most are fended off by their overly- embarrassed kids. You go for the (secret/Madagaskar-penguin) handshake, and you're both laughing as you turn your back and walk out.
As you're capturing that last moment on your way out of the class, that grin on his face reassures you - he'll be right mate, he'll be just fine.
Walking outside, through a huddle of eye-swelled parents, one mother asks you for a tissue, and you shrug apologetically. Yep, you're normal. You're just another parent whose kid has started school.