See You In September

Labor Day Weekend. Summer's last hurrah. It is so bittersweet. I love the change in weather. I jones for warm fuzzy clothes in rich hues (because my brain is fried from all the candy-inspired colors I've been wearing since Memorial Day) But I am sad to be retiring the bikinis and flip flops, and want to squeeze every last wear out of my blinding white jeans (is that Taps I hear?)

But adding to my general malaise over this last weekend of easy breezy summer mentality, is the bluesy feeling that sneaks up on me an inch at a time like that green fog in The Ten Commandments. School starts on Tuesday, and I will not be there to see my children off on their first day.

There is something bizarre and unnatural about not celebrating your children's bon voyage on the first day of school. It is a mother's finest hour. And Hil and Pat will be with Lars, and therefore I will not get to participate in the annual ritual, more sacred and celebrated than the swallows return to San Juan Capistrano.

It is weighing on me that I will not be there to give them the send off that sets the stage for the year to come:

Tiptoe into each of their rooms to very sweetly awaken them and once they are awake, pretend there is a spider crawling on them while I tickle them on the neck.

Blowdry/curl/crimp/flat iron/whatever Hil's hair to perfection and oversee the tasteful application of lip gloss and a stroke or two of brown mascara.

Rip the tags from Pat's new basketball shorts and snarky T-shirt bearing the likes of Green Day or some video game character I don't recognize.

Prepare a hot breakfast. Toasted bagels with cream cheese or a grilled muffin, or an egg and bacon sandwich. Something that says "I love you and want to take care of you."

Pack a fun but nutritious lunch. A delicious sandwich, a peach or some grapes or strawberries, a homemade cookie. An extra little something like a Fun Size Snickers Bar. A favorite drink.

Tuck a note inside the new backpack telling each child how special they are, how proud I am to be their Mom, and that I know for sure it is going to be a great day and a great school year.

Place that note somewhere in the backpack where they will see it before their friends do and can read it in private with out it being snatched and passed around the room by the little SOBs that are in every middle school population.

Take pictures of their first day of school fabulousness and swear that I won't show them to anyone at work.

Drive them to school and see them each off with an warm but unobtrusive hug and smooch as they fly out of the car to greet the friends they haven't seen for weeks.

But Lars won't do anything of this nature.

He will call to the kids to awaken them from the bathroom where he is slicing and dicing his face with a razor.

Hil will be on her own with her hair, and will not have the appropriate accouterments anyway. And even Liza being there won't help. Her hair is fright wig quality on the best of days. No guidance there.

Pat will wear whatever, and hopefully will peel off all the little plastic sticky things that run down the fronts of shirts and pants indicating size before he steps out the door. Lars won't notice them, but the other kids at school will for sure.

There will be breakfast bars scarfed down in the car. No notes, no pictures. No fanfair. A day like any other.

And I, knowing that if I try to make arrangements to see them off myself, I will be refused, rebuffed and be seen as an intrusion, don't do anything to change the situation. Lars will assume I am criticizing his abilities and blame the kids for making me feel that way. And knowing this, I make it impossible for myself to even attempt to see them by accepting an early meeting that same day. A conflict that keeps me from caving to my motherly instincts and insisting on seeing them, and therefore also gives me a little less to struggle with from a guilt perspective. I can tell myself with some degree of honesty, that I'd love to be there but I can not.

I know in my heart that the kids are feeling it too, and for that I am profoundly sorry. One more cross for the kids of divorce to grin and bear.