STEPPING STONES
STEPPING STONES
I went to a kindergarten orientation.
It was inside a church.
They had fruits and bagels and plastic deli trays set out.
And everyone sat on folding chairs, fifty parents or so.
There were handbooks and envelopes
and packets of information
with school logos on the front and
my name on the inside.
All little reminders of the chapter I am about to begin.
A real run at adulthood-
one where my son has to wake up on time
and be in a class, and things fall back on me.
Up until now, almost five years deep,
there’s been no measurement of how it’s all supposed to work.
Parenting.
There’s no government sign up sheet or
set of standard guidelines. I’ve just been taking wild stabs
in directions that make little sense,
then waiting for someone to come along and correct me.
But they never do.
It’s an amazing experience.
One that I’m still totally unqualified for.
And yet here I am.
In the church.
And everyone around me looks very serious
mostly dressed in shirts with buttons and pants outfits
and trying to concentrate
about the dates and times
and the prices and
getting ready for the year to come.
And what am I wearing? I don’t even know.
The jeans I’ve been given, and the shoes, and the underwear, socks, and-
Where did this shirt come from?
How did it get into my closet and onto my back?
Someone I’ve never met probably threw it away
and I took it in and spray painted it to make it look even worse than it did when they threw it away.
What if it belonged to one of these parents?
What if it had been someone’s lucky shirt?
On the table near the coffee
they had fleece blankets for sale
as some sort of fund raiser.
People were buying them straight away,
without even unrolling them to check the size.
As the question and answer period
commenced, all of the parents began taking notes .
It had not occurred to me to bring a pen.
I must have eaten five bagels
while I sat there, in the back corner
looking it all over thinking
thoughts about what each one of these parents looked like
when they were making these children.
Their sweaty brows and out-of-control muscles.
Those noises that they probably make.
Pounding away at sex, weird and free from
consequence. Sex before they knew
what it all really meant.
How many of them predicted it would land them here-
Watching a man at a pulpit
explain how to make a right hand turn
into the parking lot
at eight in the morning
four months from now.
And I love it all,
this community,
these strangers I am about to know.
This option of stepping beyond the realm
of what’s available.
It’s a very beautiful thing that is happening
like a flower opening up
with a scent you’ve never smelled
and tiny bunch of insides whose color you can’t wait to see.
But at the same time, something about it
the finality of it all
really makes me want sprint
faster than my legs will carry,
out through the courtyard and over the stone wall
to throw myself
down a bunch of stairs
without even so much as a skateboard
to cushion my landing.
Why?
Just to see if I could do it.
To see if I’m still as indestructible
as I thought I was when this child first began.
Will my body will buckle?
Or instead tuck itself into a ball, instinctively bound against the pavement
and roll comfortably to the curb
shake for a moment, stand,
then brush itself off
and continue on down the street
hungry…
and in search of adventure.