My son has started to take the bus home. First time since he began his school life so we are all still getting used to the new routines.
Last night as we were chatting about the schedule for today, I realized today is the first official day my children will take the bus home together. Weather permitting off course. And I told my son that his sister’s Friday activity does not start until next week but once it starts he could have the choice of coming home with his dad or continuing to catch the bus.
To which he responded, “I think I will continue to take the bus home. It gives me great pleasure to take the bus. To walk with my friends…” and he had a truly wistful and grown up look on his face. My heart warmed just looking at his face. In awe of the sense of accomplishment mixed with a sense of pride his whole being exuded.
Then it hit me. My little boy is growing up right before my eyes. Gaining his independence from me. And I smiled feeling comforted he feels secure enough to want to take his own path without fear.
As I walked out of his bedroom I realized the route my son walks from school is almost the route I walked from school when I was his age. But my walk and my ride on the bus were longer than his both metaphorically and physically. When I was his age I walked from the public school further up the road sometimes worried about feeling inferior to those rich children that attended the private school my children now attend. Now realizing the stories of those children’s lives may not have been that different from mine.
My bus ride was a much longer ride than my son’s because of where I lived compared to where we now live. But when I think back I needed that longer ride. To lose the tough girl exterior I carried to protect myself from feeling too vulnerable as a newly motherless daughter. To make room for the 13 year old Cinderella persona I took on when I walked through my door. Cooking for my family. Doing homework. Getting everyone ready for the next day because I became the mother and woman figure in my home
I held on to his door knob digesting our intersecting paths. A warmness filling my soul as I understood life brings us full circle to when we were children through our children. To allow us to remember what the world felt like through their eyes. To remind us to let go of them sometimes so they can experience rather than us telling them what their experience should be. Letting them explore on their own so they can come back when they are ready to talk to us to help them understand what it is they are experiencing. And that is why my son has ended up on almost the same route as minewhen I was his age. To teach us both something about ourselves. About letting go and trusting. About growing up. About feeling worthy. From different vantage points but on roughly the same path.
And then I let the door knob go and walked away. Comforted in knowing my son and I are exactly where we need to be. Grateful for understanding the importance of letting go knowing how much rope I had when I was his age and how well I have turned out. Grateful for knowing it's okay to give him some rope too. Grateful that I am still here to experience his growing up with him.
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