For Spencer

My boy, I love you.

Last year, I threw us all head first into this crazy, unknown, charter school world.  You were the trooper of the century.  Early mornings, long days, and late evenings in the classroom.  We basically lived at school.  Lucy had a tremendously rewarding, positive year. I pretty much survived by the skin of my teeth. And you?  Well, you were a really good, really tired boy through it all.

You did have fun.

(Pilgrim play...you're in the blue crown as the King of England) 

You were super successful academically.

You got along great with your peers.

All in all, you "graduated" from Kindergarten with flying colors.

The only thing your teacher wrote on your student file to be passed to first grade was, "Superstar!  So sweet!"

But...
first grade just doesn't feel right.

It didn't feel right in June when I tentatively signed my LOU for the coming school year.  I wasn't sure why.  I stewed and worried for the first two weeks of summer.  And when I prayed about the possibility of keeping you in Kindergarten another year, it was kind of like:  "Duh."

So that means that I'm just teaching a morning Kindergarten class this year.  And it means that you're in that class with me.

It's a bit of a financial sacrifice for our family.  And although my administrators were supportive, they were certainly not thrilled for me to cut back to half day.  Initially, you weren't thrilled with the idea either ("hey, I'm in first grade!"  you insisted).  But when I told you that school would be over every day before lunch, you opened your mind a bit to the possibility.  =)

Now we're a month into school, and I am nothing but grateful about the whole thing.  Grateful for more time with you.  Grateful for the chance to let you play, and grow, and mature a little more before the true tide of elementary school life sweeps you into full motion.

There are still rushed, long days at school.  You still play patiently while I work, often all afternoon until Lucy finishes school.  But we've had one or two picnics at the park.  We've gone grocery shopping.  We've read books together. And I think, as the year progresses, that we'll have more of those kinds of moments.  The kind that have come to feel really critical to me.

I remember that the Saturday before Lucy started Kindergarten, Dad and I took her out to lunch and to the park.  We gave her a special present and had one of those gushy afternoons that she doesn't remember but that's in my heart forever.

I didn't really create any of those moments for you last year, but it's my goal to make sure we have them this year.  The first day of school almost overtook us, but when Lucy was invited last minute to go swimming with friends the last Saturday before school, I threw together a make-shift, "should have thought about this sooner" gift, cried over a little note to go with it, and then tore you away from your Legos and told you we were going on a Kindergarten date: lunch wherever you wanted.  You smiled and deliberated for only a few minutes before choosing McDonald's.  So we drove to Provo, picked up some laminating, and then pulled under the golden arches to order you a happy meal.

I loved watching you dunk your chicken nuggets, deck out your happy meal car with stickers, and play in the play place.  After lunch we drove to Dad's spot.

"What beautiful wrapping paper!"  you said graciously when I handed you a hastily wrapped gift.  I figured you'd be a little disappointed with the contents, but you didn't seem too sad.  "A journal?"  you asked.  I nodded, "To write about all of our Kindergarten adventures and special times."
"And the things that make me sad," you added.
"Yes, those things too," I said.

You opened to the first page and read the little note I had written.  We shared lots of smiles, and then I let you open the silly "paper rock scissors" erasers you had wanted so badly at the store a few weeks before, and which Lucy and I had snuck into the cart to save for your birthday.

We played paper rock scissors for an eternity.  Then, before we left, we looked at your name and Dad's name there together on his headstone.  I cried a little as I told you how much Dad loves you and how proud of you we both are.  Then we raced to be home before Lucy would be dropped off.

I loved those moments with you.  But what I loved even more was the little inscription you wrote in your new journal later that night while I was busy hanging a curtain rod with Grandpa (who had come down to give us blessings before school).  It started off, "der mom," and was full of the kind of misspelled sweetness that I couldn't bear to miss out on if you were in first grade spelling this year.

"i no i am u chilb ov god,"
"i no theat Dad luvs me"
"i no god luvs you"

*Tears* (mine).

And you cried a few tears - great big, sobbing tears - a few nights after that, when you couldn't find the journal and you wanted so badly to "read the message"  I'd written to you.  We said a little prayer and found it under your blanket.

You've been writing for days now, and your sweet entries have left me a little in awe.  I really didn't think you'd care very much about the journal.  But I should have known better.  You write often and sincerely - never under my supervision or direction.  That little journal has become a true treasure to you, and it is, in turn, a treasure to me.  The very best kind of treasure.

Daddy is fine, Spence.  And he and I love you.  

(And for the record, I want us to have "unuther" date too =)