"Here, Christopher. Try this backpack on and see if it's too heavy for you."
It was the night before what I considered Christopher's second day of kindergarten, but was apparently his first day of kindergarten because the other first day of kindergarten was just a trial run, and I was supposed to figure out that it didn't count as a first day since he wasn't in his real classroom with his real teacher on the fake first day.
|Christopher on his fake first day of kindergarten.|
Last night, the backpack contained his three ring binder, a pack of colored pencils, a ream of white paper, a ream of colored card stock, his towel for rest time, and his Mickey Mouse (also for rest time).
It was damn heavy.
He was damn determined to carry it.
He wiggled his arms into the straps and stood up, slightly convex, and proceeded to strut around the kitchen. His chest was out like a rooster, partly from pride, but mostly from the weight of his load.
"See, Mama? My strong muscles can handle it," he crowed.
"I don't know, Sweetheart. You know, I'm not going to walk you in tomorrow. I'm just dropping you off in the carpool line because I have to get Colin to school too. I think I'll take out the paper. We can take it the next day when I can help you."
"NO! I can do it, Mama!"
"Alright. You can do it. It's not that long of a walk to your room. I know you're strong."
This morning, I slip a small package of fruit snacks and a Capri Sun into the front pocket of his backpack. That snack was apparently the proverbial straw.
As we waited our turn in the carpool lane, I had Christopher climb into the front seat so I could help him into his backpack, and because he was sitting on the wrong side of the car for the carpool lane. I eased his little arms into the straps of his Superman backpack and tried to kiss him goodbye.
It fell off.
The door opened.
We weren't ready.
Oh, shit! We were holding up the carpool lane!
I shoved his arms back into the backpack and told him to jump out.
That is one literal kid. He bounced out of the Jeep. When his feet hit the ground, the weight of that backpack, after inserting one fruit snack treat and a Capri Sun, sent him rolling backwards onto the ground.
He lay on his backpack, arms flailing and legs kicking like a turtle, unable to right himself. I was stuck behind the driver's seat with my eyes wide, mouth hung open, and completely mortified that I had turtled my poor child with school supplies.
From the ground I heard, "MAMA! Why did you put so much in my backpack???"
Luckily, because first impressions don't matter one bit, THE PRINCIPAL rushed over to help him up. She picked up his backpack and said, "Whoa. This is really heavy."
"It's the fruit snacks," I said.
Mother of the Year. Don't even apply for it. It's all me.