I burst into tears in the pickup line at school on Monday. Normally, I’m in and out, but I got there early and as luck would have it, the kids were outside playing.
My kid.
Watching him scamper and romp was a breath of fresh air. He played as if he didn’t have a care in the world and he didn’t. Sitting there, an observer to this innocent act of a child playing on the playground.
I burst into tears.
Pouring out of me, gut-wrenching sobs filled the car. This was going to be one of the last times I would ever witness this elementary school innocence. Care-free, filled with wonder and romping. Nothing controlled about his movements. No attempts to act cool and impress girls.
It was pure, unadulterated childhood right in front of me and I reveled in his freedom. Did I ever feel that free as a child? Quite honestly, I don’t think I ever did. Mine was a childhood of torment and fear due to my father’s abuse of my mother. When I was in fifth grade, I was walking laps around the ball field talking to the guidance counselor. Peanut, in his final year of elementary school, was playing without a care in the world.
Relief came knowing I hadn’t screwed my kid up so bad he was walking laps with the guidance counselor. Instead, was reveling in his childhood, not knowing how much he had affected me by this simple act of just being a child. I was living vicariously through him and his joy. Experiencing a part of childhood I never experienced, by being a voyeur into the freedom and innocence of the child I birthed.
While my childhood will always be with me, I can take time to see things through the eyes of my son and find peace in tiny increments. Would I call it a rebirth? No. But I do know that I experienced solace that day in the carpool line.
