She ask me hesitantly, almost as if she expects the answer I’m going to give her, “Mommy, are you sure you can’t come have lunch with me today?”
I sigh. It is 7:25 a.m. School starts in twenty minutes. We’re still doing last night’s homework. The girls’ lunches aren’t made, because I have this rare ability to time warp us all from 6:15 when they wake up to 7:10 when we need to leave. It’s as if that hour disappears somehow in a whirl of cacophonous chaos(“Cereal? Where’s the cereal? Oh, there’s not enough for a whole bowl! Will that be enough for you Abigail? Oh, wait, I found another box – a different flavor but not altogether different. It will be okay? Gracie, take your medicine! Abigail, brush your teeth. Where are the socks? Why are there 28 socks in the basket but none of them match? Why can’s Steve listen when I say it would be easier if all the socks were the same color? Why can’t I follow through and have their back packs ready the night before? Why was yesterday so hard? Abigail, brush your teeth. Gracie – shoes!”). It is 7:25 a.m. and the day spreads out before me in one rushed task after another. Work, scouts, pictures, a simple project for church, baking cupcakes for Abigail’s park “unParty”. There is no way I have time to go to school and have lunch with my third grader. No way. Does she see that on my face? When I told her earlier in the week that I would come to school today, the week didn’t seem so crazy. It’s like my weeks are funnels, wide open and swirling with possibilities on Monday, but by Friday, I’m trying to cram a million tasks into a space only designed for six. What was I thinking when I told her that I’d come and have lunch with her today? She’s a fairly understanding kid. I’m sure it will be okay.
“Sweetie, really, I can’t. I’m sorry, really sorry. But, I’ll come on Monday. I promise.” Wait! Is that what I said to her earlier this week. Did I say “I promise.” No, I don’t think I did. It’s okay. She says as much. “It’s okay, Mommy. I understand.” Her eyes cloud, but only for a moment and then she’s fine, laughing and finally putting her shoes on. It will be okay.
We’re running through the courtyard of their school, trying desperately to beat the tardy bell and a required trip to the office for me to sign a paper and explain why my children are tardy. Gracie takes off for her modular classroom, hair flying in the wind, her pink striped backpack bouncing as she run-walks. She waves, “Bye, Mommy! I’ll see you this afternoon. I love you!” and she’s gone. I wave and take off after Abigail to make sure she makes it on time, too, to her class at the other end of the school Time warping is in my favor this time, or perhaps the tardy bell clock is later than the clocks in all the classrooms that I see that say the bell should have rung two minutes ago. I walk slowly back to the car and breath a sigh, not of relief exactly, but just acceptance. Today is hard, it’s a busy day following yesterday’s busy day. It will be okay.
I am home, standing on the cool tile in our bathroom and a thought strikes me. How many more years, months, weeks do I have to have lunch with Gracie? How many days before she decides that sitting beside her mother in a cafeteria full of her friends is a liability instead of a joy? And, then, quickly behind that thought comes another. DID I promise her that I would be there today? I didn’t use the word promise, but don’t I teach her that your word is your promise? I said “I’ll have lunch with you Friday.” Did that imply a promise? Of course it did. Not going is a broken promise to her. Yes, I have a lot going on today, but nothing more important than her, nothing more important than my word to her. I rearrange a few things and let a few things go (farewell, cute little goodie bags for Abigail’s friends at the park).
It is 11:53 a.m. and I’m walking into the school cafeteria. My head hurts from the noise. I scout the crowd, searching with no luck for my girl. One of my friends, a teacher sitting with her class, makes eye contact with me and points to my left. I turn. Gracie is running toward me, simultaneously breaking two rules of the lunchroom: running and leaving her seat. Joy is spread across her face. I kneel down and catch her as she hurls into my arms. “You came!” she says. I tell her, slowly and directly, “I made a promise to you. I am here. You are more important than anything I was doing.” In that moment, all my past transgressions disappear – the times I’ve let her down because of work, the times I haven’t played with her because I was working on a craft, the times I haven’t read to her because I was playing a computer game, the times I haven’t watched her flip and twirl because I’ve been checking email. It all disappears. She smiles. It is okay.