I am so not ready

Can somebody show me where the pause button is?

This morning I was walking with my son to his classroom as I have been doing for the past ten days. The autumn air hovered around 54 degrees. I looked at him bundled in lofty fleece and khaki shorts, and thought to myself, "Good call on the extra layers."

A fellow classmate approached with a proud spring in his step and announced, "I can walk to class by myself these days."

Oh no, here it comes.

But it didn't. Wilson continued walking next to me though he did look at me. I saw the question roll over in his mind and across his brow like a subtle current shifting in a calm ocean tide. He looked ahead down the long sidewalk to the elementary school building watching the other children enter and exit with and without parents as if to measure, to count, to assess the proportion of children with parents compared to those without.

Still we walked, and he is classmate chattered away about this and that. I wasn't paying attention. I was too busy counting my steps knowing full well that these might be my very last walked with my son to his classroom. Each leg up sent me whirling into space as if without gravity; my anchor gone. I placed each foot down with relief that I still remained tethered to what I have come to know is my life-rope to my purpose: I am a mother still connected by an albeit invisible umbilical cord so not ready to cut the tie...for the length has been stretched to capacity. This time, it is not up to the doctor or me to cut the tie; this cut is purely, 100% up to my son. And I am not ready.

I believe I got about 24 steps in before Wilson turned to me and said, "I can take it from here." Though he said it quietly, I heard him loud and clear. I so wanted to ask him, "What did you say?" (lovingly, of course) or ask, "Are you sure?"

But I knew he was sure. After all, he said, "I can take it from here." Not, "I think I can take it from here."

Gulp.

"Ok, my love," I said. I knelt down and hugged him, kissed his soft cheek. "Have a great day." I stood and watched him walk away from me towards the giant doors that swing out and envelope all those who enter with warmth, laughter, rules, negotiations, games, queries, telephone calls, instructions, choices, consequences, seen and unseen, known and unknown, but all in the pursuit of growth and becoming more independent.

I stood and watched as his classmate ran through the door letting it shut in Wilson's face. He turned and looked at me. Gulp. "Stay put," I coached myself. And before I said, "You can get it," he turned back and pulled it open. The door flung wide. Surprising himself by his own strength, he hopped out of the way and entered.

Bye-bye, Momma.

Bye-bye.

I stood and did not want to turn around to return to my car.

Can I stay here in this one spot all day?

Can I stay here and wait for him to make sure he comes back out in 8 hours?

Can I stay here so that when he does come out he will know that I waited for him?

Better yet can I build a memorial right here on this spot and engrave the date and epitaph: "On this day, September 14, 2011, Wilson Riley Harold Vest did bravely depart his beloved mother, Michelle Lynn Baker, for the shores of independence at 8:04 a.m."

Before I made an utter fool of myself, I turned and walked, and looked at all the other mothers whose children left them at the curb. They jumped into their cars - professionals by now - some even with young precocious preschoolers. Wow, I am so glad mine hung on a little longer.

Yes, call it selfish but I can't help it. I am so not ready for Wilson to be any older. Where is the pause button? I want to press it right here, right now, and stop time: these moments when he still asks me to play with him, these moments where he still reaches out and takes my hand, these moments when he holds my arm when I read him bedtime stories. Please don't let it end. This is way too hard.

I keenly remember the early days when he was just an infant. If only I had my wits about me then to relish the sweetness of those days. It is not fair they are wasted on exhausted and shell-shocked parents. I'd love to be able to go back with the energy I have now...but I don't suppose that goes together: new parents with newborns who have all the sleep, nutrition and support they need. Ok, maybe the rare few do.

I remember being so eager for Wilson to walk. I can honestly say mothering for me began to come more "naturally" once he began to walk. And it has been these days from Wilson turning 1 to now being 6 that have been preciously magical.

I know, I know, I've heard everyone say it only gets better. But right now, in this moment, no, it doesn't get any better than the moment leading up to "I can take it from here."

And it is precisely the beauty and stability of all those moments that lead to "I can take it from here."

Life is deeply bittersweet. I savor this moment...quietly, reverently, humorously, lovingly, sorrowfully, proudly...fully.

This is the pause.