A little dragon thrown into the routine

Until last April, I never realized what a blessing it is to be able to drop off and pick up my own children from school.  When Andrew was initially diagnosed we spent so much time in and out of the hospital that I rarely got the opportunity.  I had to rely on grandparents, and friends, and friends of friends....It was sad for me.  I missed it.

It made me realize that despite the frantic, sometimes screeching, search for backpacks and lunches and matching socks I really enjoy the whole "school drop off" process.  I enjoy saying "goodbye" for the day and blowing kisses out the window.  I enjoy the energy of the busy school and noticing the outfits of the teachers in the crosswalk.  I love to hear the happy screaming of the kids on the playground.  And I love seeing that big welcoming smile when I pick them up after a long day apart.

I am finally back to that routine, at least once a day on most days.  I may not always make it to pick up, but for the most part, I do everything I can to be there for drop-off.  It makes me happy.

After we do a quick drive-through goodbye for Aaron, we head straight to Sammy's preschool.  We usually arrive about 15 minutes early.  I usually spend the first few in a  frenzied scramble of mascara and foundation, applied with the aid of a rearview mirror.  After that, the three of us head to the playground for a few minutes of play before school starts.  Andrew has always been an avid fan of this pre-preschool ritual. 

Today, while I was finishing up my last few eyelashes, Sammy was pacing the car like a caged lion.  His friends were already on the playground and he was eager and desperate for me to "be done!" so he could escape and run free.  Andrew was getting animated and excited as well.  "Where's my dragon hat?" he said urgently, "I'm going to roar at them."  I opened the car door, plopped it on his head, and off he ran, following Sammy down the sidewalk.

We got there and faced a row of three four-year-old boys.  "ROAR" Andrew growled.  "ROAR!!" (This is where they were supposed to feign fear and cover their faces in horror like every nurse/doctor/adult does).   "We're not scared of you,"  they said.   "Play along boys, play along"  I thought to myself, trying to send them subliminal messages.  But it didn't work.  My heart sunk a little bit as I watched Andrew drop his head, wipe his nose with his hand, and turn around in search of the slide.  He seemed okay, but my heart was a little heavier.  That hat has become almost like a super power.  It gives him attention. It makes other people laugh.  It makes him feel a little more powerful.  And this morning it didn't work.

Later we were all on the jungle gym and Andrew was sitting next to the same "big" boys.  He was so active his hat kept falling off, revealing his bare little head.  One of the boys said, "Why did you get rid of your hair? It makes you look uglier."  I knew he did not intend to be mean; he was just being an honest four-year-old.  So I said to him in a whispered, firm, kind, warning-through-my-teeth tone of voice, "Don't say that."  Ignoring me, he repeated, "Why don't you have hair? It makes you look ugly."  And I again repeated, looking sadly into his eyes, "Don't say that."  He seemed to get it the second time.  I noticed that his eyes were understanding mine, maybe a bit.  So then I changed tactics and I said, "Did you see his scar? Isn't that tough looking?  He is bald and has a scar!  He is tough." The boys seemed to like that and said, "yeah! that does look tough."  But inside, I was feeling sad for my boy.  Andrew didn't comment.  I'm not sure he even knows what "ugly" means.  But Mama does.  And it hurt.

About that time, the classroom door was opening so I walked over, kissed Sammy goodbye and signed him in.  I picked up my little dragon and headed to the car for another day of chemo.

We are back to the old routine.  Kind of.  At least a mutated form of  "old."  We are blowing kisses, smiling, playing, dropping off, picking up....    But Andrew has no hair and a hat that sometimes works magic.  Andrew may come to the playground attached to tubes and my hip.  I am more protective.  I come armed with Purell and distracting comments.  I am more fragile and prone to cry (at least inwardly) when a four-year-old hurts my feelings.  But I am there.  And after the last few months, I feel blessed to be there.  I am so grateful for every morning.