Just in Case
My son starts kindergarten in two weeks, and he’s got questions:
What color is my classroom?
Will my teacher know my name?
Is there a bathroom, or do I have to hold it?
I answer: Not sure. Yes. Please don’t hold it.
He asks them so earnestly, as if my next words will decide his future ability to count to 100, read a book, tie his shoes. Whatever impossible things they demand of five-year-olds these days.
Some mornings, I find him in his room, stuffies lined up in front of him as he takes roll: Mr. Elephant, Mr. Bear, Mr. Turtle. He looks up at me and asks, “Is this how school works?”
I’m just trying not to scar him before school does it for me. Before some kid notices he blinks a little too hard, too often. Before his teacher sighs, assuming his nervous coughing means he’s being difficult. I can see him, staring down at his favorite mismatched socks: one purple, one pink, feeling too visible, in all the wrong ways.
This morning, he asks if he should bring his own toilet paper. I say no. Tonight, I’ll tuck some in his backpack anyway, between his lunchbox and spare socks. Just in case.
Rachel M. Hollis lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband, child, and a deeply unmotivated dog. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Scapegoat Review, Blink-Ink (print), and elsewhere.