Time is not on my side

Perhaps I should be happy we got this far into Will's school career before disaster struck. This morning we forgot his backpack.

As I told him to have a great day and make sure he grabbed his backpack, oh, the horror. It was not in the car. We looked at each other with huge eyes and I sensed that tears may start to fall.

Let me back up a bit. Well, maybe not just a bit ... let me back up about 28 years. I had a homework assignment to color code a map. My teacher had been very clear that we were to use color pencils, not crayons.

As soon as Bus #13 departed from Pineview Elementary, I realized that I'd left my color pencils at school. My stomach dropped to the floor, my hands and feet got tingly and my eyes swelled white-hot as I unsuccessfully fought back tears.

I'm sure there was some reasonably solution (probably involving my cousin Rona who lived down the road and who was in the same class as me). But, now, nearly 30 years later, I don't remember the resolution. I just remember the panic.

This morning, when Will and I realized his backpack was not in the car, oh, how I knew his pain.

He was wondering how he could be ready when the bell rang. Would he get in trouble? What would he tell the teacher?

Before his tears could well any more, I announced a plan.

"You go into your classroom. I'll go get your backpack and bring it to you right away."

"WHAT? NO! I can't go in without my backpack! I'll go with you."

"No, you can't, you'll be late for school."

He looked at me like I was crazy to suggest he go into the school sans backpack.

I smiled, "It's fine! I'll bring it right away. Quick like a bunny."

He reluctantly left the car, feeling naked, I'm sure. I booked out of there as fast as school zones allow (OK, maybe a little faster...they were all mostly inside by then anyway).

When I got to the school, they were just finishing the Pledge of Allegiance and a moment of silence for Veterans Day. I brought the backpack in, checking Will's eyes for any evidence of puffiness.

"Oh, thank you," his teacher said. "He was so upset."

My heart sank as I realized Will had experienced one of those hurts he might still remember when he's in his mid-30s. I'd wanted so much to protect him by darting home for the backpack.

When I picked him up after school today, I told him, "Mommy was quick this morning, right? Can you believe how fast I got back with your agenda book?"

My plan was to try to replace his negative memory with a positive memory of his mom, "the hero who always saved the day."

"No," he said, completely serious. "It took forever."

"What?" I said. "No way! I went as fast as I could, I just ran in the house and drove straight back to school!"

"Mommy, it took a long time. Are you sure you didn't stop to go shopping?"

As we grinned at each other, I realized that Will may have inherited my tendency toward completely irrational panic, but he also inherited another trait from me (and his dad, grandpa, aunt and uncles): a good, healthy dose of smart-aleck.