The second day of school, and it is the confident daughter with the did-it-myself-side-ponytail who crumbles as the bus pulls up. The son I've ached for over the summer climbed aboard with a skip in his step -- funny, the role reversals.
She wanted to be close all morning, standing near me in the kitchen, sitting beside me over cereal, brushing her hair with a smile, holding my hand up to the bus stop. But when the rumbling bus slowed to a stop, I heard a sharp "no" under her breath, and she threw herself against me, tears. This girl likes to be strong, and I could tell by her frantic face-wiping and face-burying how much she wanted to hide from the full bus of kids.
I walked almost up the steps with her, whispering to both of us that she could do it, but her face was flushed and she kept wiping her eyes and shaking her head. Then the doors closed, and I could just make out her slouched form through the darkened windows as the bus drove away. I walked home with wet cheeks whispering prayers after her. We'll see what day three brings...
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