Sean’s second school year has come to a close.
Antique Daddy and I attended the closing ceremonies that included a video montage of snapshots of all the kids taken during the school year and set to music. I was surprised at how the video affected me. It evoked in me a stinging, sloppy, messy welling up of tears — tears that seem to have been jerked up out of their sleep from the deep dark underside of my soul. Unfortunately the tears were not for the same reasons as last year or for the sweet and sentimental reason’s that you might imagine.
The one and only reason a parent attends an event like this is to see a picture of their kid up on the big screen. And I am no different. Even though I have sixty spajillion pictures and as many miles of video of my child, I wanted to see Sean on this video. It meant something more to me than what I understood.
As the video started, I straightened my posture, sat on the edge of my seat, trained my eyes on the screen like a Golden Retreiver waiting for a treat and anxiously waited for the image of my precious boy to appear. After three songs and the faces of every other child in the school had flashed before my eyes, I began to feel a bit uncomfortable. I remained hopeful and did not avert my eyes from the screen. Two and three pictures of other children were shown – not that I was counting — okay I was counting – but no Sean. Had he been forgotten? How could that be?
Tears began to sting my eyes. I was fighting the good fight in holding them back. And the more I struggled to hold the tears back, the more I felt a new word must be invented here to describe this feeling. Finally towards the end there was one blurry distant photo of Sean with a look of terror on his face as he stood in the vicinity of Santa. And then the lights came up and everyone applauded. And I bit my lip until it bled.
I felt new word and then I felt silly for feeling that way. Silly. Small. And stupid. And this is only pre-school.