Twenty little people standing at the front of their classroom. Shifting from foot to foot. One wearing a red Santa hat. Many in red and green. Small hands holding an assortment of musical instruments. Mine is looking a little nervous. I can tell he is fighting an inner compulsion to place his thumb in his mouth. He's looking around. Trying to see through the mess of chairs and parents and siblings and coats. The hope and expectation is etched all over his face, making me desperate to get his attention. I am up on my tiptoes. I am waving. I finally call his name.
And then he sees me.
And his face lights up in a way that makes me grin. He grabs the sleeve of the friend next to him. I see his mouth shape the words, "my mom is here." I keep grinning in an attempt to keep back the tears. Because his adoration for me is so striking and beautiful. And his pleasure at my presence is so transparent. I am his mom. And being there is what I do.
And then he sees me.
And his face lights up in a way that makes me grin. He grabs the sleeve of the friend next to him. I see his mouth shape the words, "my mom is here." I keep grinning in an attempt to keep back the tears. Because his adoration for me is so striking and beautiful. And his pleasure at my presence is so transparent. I am his mom. And being there is what I do.
