This year, with Viv at the middle school, the kids leave on separate buses. Vivienne dutifully bundles up to make her way across to the bus stop at 6:59 (!) each morning, then I get a quiet hour with Hugh before the grade school bus arrives. It feels a bit like that final pre-K year before he went to kindergarten, a sweet little window of connection before he launches into the next thing, a busy schedule, less time for Mom.
Lately, he’s been getting up early – all on his own – to be sure he’s dressed with his bag packed so there’s time to curl up with me and talk. This morning, as I sat with my coffee, he climbed right onto my lap, took a deep breath and closed his eyes. It took me right back to his toddler years, and the long limbs draped over the edge of the sofa seemed slightly unbelievable.
How long will he do this? It’s one of the things that makes me want to stop time – I know I will always long for these moments when the season is gone.
Without fail, at 7:47 am, after putting his shoes on and loading up his backpack, he’ll ask, “Mom, will you wait with me?”
Sometimes I’m rushing to get ready for work myself and I can’t. But most days, I wait with him. We stand at the door watching for the bus, and it’s this simple, unguarded togetherness that seems to fill him up before launching.
These tiny little moments feel like such an honor as a parent. Who am I to be this remarkable person’s comfort? Who am I to witness his growth?
And then, I could ask myself… Who has waited with me over the seasons of my life? Who has waited with you?
The Key to the House 