An Old Promise Made Good

Seven years ago, I quit my editing job, got married and moved to Germany. As I was wrapping up my final days at the office, I promised the associate editor for one of the magazines I copyedited that I would send him a copy of the German magazine that bears his last name.

Last week, I visited the website of my old company for the very first time. I don’t know what took me so long to do it, but there you have it. Checking out the sub-domain of that magazine I copyedited, I saw that a couple years back, the associate editor had been promoted to editor. That made me happy, because I felt he was a nice guy and working with him had been very pleasant.

And then, I realized that I had never sent him the magazine I had promised exactly seven years ago. So, the very next day, I bought a copy of that week’s edition and dropped it in the mail. I figured it was the least I could do… and the last chance I have to do it. We are, after all, in the process of making plans to return to the States for good.

After recovering from the shock of the postage -- almost three times the cost of the magazine! I was rudely reminded why I don’t send anyone presents from Deutschland. Well, except to my mom at Christmas! -- I was filled with a giddy pleasure. Imagine your surprise after receiving a large envelope with a big airmail stamp on it, from a person you haven’t spoken to in seven years. And inside that envelope is a promise finally -- if belatedly -- made good on.

I hope he likes his present.

Letting the Young-uns Fly...

A certain copywriter hit the nail on the head when he (or more likely, she) wrote, “If they could only stay little till their Carters wear out.” With every cute little outfit my son has outgrown, with every sweet little quirk left behind, or funny mispronunciation corrected, that Carter’s phrase comes unbidden to my mind. And every once in a while, as if someone had clicked my mind’s refresh button, I’ll take a new look at my son and realize that he really is growing up fast.

I often come to this realization with a painful tweak, and I find myself having to scramble to catch up with his growth. He’s not a little boy anymore, is he? He’s six years old, and somewhat tall and sturdy for his age. And just Sunday night, he lost his second baby tooth. But still…

I’m always willing to let him spread his wings, test them for flight. I remember the first few times he so carefully poured water or juice all by himself. The first time he brushed his teeth alone. Now, he sometimes makes his own breakfast, buttering his own bread or pouring his own cereal. He dresses himself most days, too. These things make me happy. I’m happy for his budding independence, and I’m happy I no longer have to be quite SO responsible for the simple things in his life. But the most recent development gives me a little trouble.

My son wants to walk to kindergarten alone.

It’s really not such a big deal. The school is less than five minutes away on foot. The journey is even quicker if you’re an energetic six-year-old itching to stretch your strong, boy leg muscles after a long winter indoors. And two weeks ago, after he plaintively begged me, I finally said, “Okay, you can go by yourself.”

He was very excited, and kept asking me how long before he should leave. When I told him it was time to put his shoes on, he hopped up and did it without hesitation, then pulled on his coat, hat, mittens and scarf without being told. Wow. Now, that's a first!

We said goodbye, and as his warmly packed, very alive body walked out the door, I realized that my son may be ready to assume this new responsibility, but I wasn’t ready to relinquish it. How would I know when he got there? How would I know he whether got there in one piece?

How would I know if he got there at all???

I quickly ran to the bathroom (I couldn’t wait to go potty), washed my hands, donned my shoes, coat and mittens, and flew out the door after him. I wasn’t going to join him, I just wanted to follow him to make sure he got there all right. But when I jogged down the hill to the main street, my son was nowhere in sight.

“Be calm,” I told myself. “He’s just beyond your sightline. Nothing to worry about.”

I followed the narrow sidewalk all the way down the hill to the kindergarten, situated beside a swift-flowing brook swollen with the melting snow. The walkway to the front door of the school was empty, no sign of my son in his lime-green-and-grey ski jacket anywhere. Just as I had made up my mind to sneak into the kindergarten to be sure he was in there, the mother of one of his schoolmates appeared.

“Hallo, Claudia! Hast du mein Sohn da drin gesehen?” I asked. Did you see my son in there?

“Joh,” she answered in her Schwäbisch dialect. She had seen him, and he was very proud of himself that he had walked to kindergarten all alone.

Satisfied that all was well, and not wanting him to discover that I had followed him, I turned around and headed back home.

Since then, my son has begun showing other signs of independence. I still bring him to kindergarten most days, but he no longer gives me the big hug and kiss at the door that he used to. And on the days he asks to walk alone, like the big boy he is, I let him go.

Then, I count to sixty before hopping in the car to trail him there, making sure he walks through the door of the school, safe and sound!