Big K little k, what begins with K?

We walked Tucker to school this morning, peeling away from the rest of the pack to go up kindergarten hill.  I leaned over his head, reminding him once more of the paperwork inside his backpack that needed to be turned in.  And to tell him again how much he is loved.  His hair smelled like shampoo and dreams.

We sure have waited a long time to send a kid to kindergarten.  We've made it this far, and the magic of the milestone is not lost on us.  We are delighted to send him, a sort of white-knuckled delight, but still.  We acknowledge the hard work of parenting a child past five, but also clearly recognize the underlying luck.

I oscillated between pride over his readiness to bolt toward the building and wistfulness that he were one who needed to hold back, wanted to hold my hand a minute longer.   I pushed beyond a bunch of messy emotions and let a wave of gratitude wash over me, exhaling one of the shortest prayers I know, Thanks.  I wished him luck as I watched him begin to do the thing he is so plainly made to do.

We took Tolliver out for pancakes, gave him our full attention as he flew the small plane, a gift from Tuck "so you don't miss me too much," precariously close to the syrup.  The afternoon stretched and sagged.  I put away groceries and ran a few miles and folded some laundry, checked the clock more than I should have, wondering what he was working on.  Andy kept busy braising short ribs for chili, the lunch Tuck requested we pack for his first day but agreed to for the second.

When it was time to retrieve him I bent over again, inhaled the scent of new beginnings, of sweat and sharpened pencils and even bigger dreams than the ones his body held this morning.