My rainbow shoes and I have sat in this room with another Mom, a grandpa and daddy Peppa every day since school reopenned.
Every day at around 11:30, I have dropped miss T’s lunch in the classroom next door and listened to baby banter, cries and things falling. Where there are kids, things will fall; things will break and people will sometimes cry or return an eye for an eye.
There are days I have sat here with a book — I finished Maya Angelou’s ‘I know why the caged bird sings’ here. Here, I discovered that the funny chinese-looking English comedian has written a book. I downloaded it on AllBooks App, read it and didn’t like it. I haven’t finished it so it may be a good one eventually.
I have sat down with my laptop to finish an article whose deadline is slowly coming at me like a haka dancer. I have tried to plan my days when it looks like several days are coming at me at once.
This room has been a bus stop of sorts, where I sit and wait for Miss T to finish her food and then we move on with the business of growing up. I have always desired to be a present Mom. To just be there to do the minutest and ‘mundanest’ of things for my two girls.
One time, while I was still fumbling under the waters of the corporate world to find a footing, I was asked by a colleague what my life goal was. I said, ” To be there for my children and bring up godly children.” Long after that, I kicked myself repeatedly for giving such an ambitionless answer. I mean, I should have said something intelligent like, ‘Be a CEO’ by the time I’m 40.” I battled with it. Was being “Mom” glorious enough? I asked myself many times if indeed I believed this to be the best job yet.
Every day, when Miss T is done with her lunch, she runs to this room. She peeps at the door and I pretend not to see her. And then she jumps and says, “Boom!” I give an exaggerated startle, turn sharply, jump up and pretend how much she scared me. She brightens, her eyes twinkle, her smile stretches to Madagascar and her laughter is like baby thunder.
Today is the last day I’m sitting in this room waiting for her. It’s the last day of her Foundation Stage One class and of going home at midday. When we come back in September, she’ll be a big girl, she’ll be wearing uniform, and she’ll be going home at 2:50 PM.
She has grown. I have seen her grow, in this room. Today, when she appeared and peeped again in readiness for a startle, I knew, it’s still the best job ever. I have many jobs, but this one tops them all.
Hold on mama. The good news is, they grow so fast. The bad news is, they grow so fast!