My Clean Slate

Owen finally started preschool today. It was about a week later than everybody else. It makes sense, since it's a Catholic school.

They're always a bit behind the times.

I kid.

It's a wonderful place, with caring teachers, big jars of tempura paint, and kid-size nooks and crannies. For three days a week, Owen gets to live in a larger world, one that belongs solely to him.

I wasn't prepared to feel any emotion about this. It's the same school, with most of the same friends as last year. It's preschool, for Pete's sake. 

But--My God--where is my baby?

He already looks like the man he will be someday. The soft cheeks, the dimpled elbows--they belong to the son of my memories.

I thought he was so big when he was two---the age Joel is right now.

I didn't know that he could be so protective. 

Or such a caring, trusted friend.

I watch my inquisitive first-born discover his world, and kiss him goodbye.

When I pick him up three hours later, I ask, "Which friend did you like seeing the most?"

He replies, "You, Mommy."

When Owen was just a distant hope, I taped this poem to the wall by my desk at work.

Every time I read it, I dreamed of being a mother:

You’re

by Sylvia Plath

Clownlike, happiest on your hands,   

Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,   

Gilled like a fish. A common-sense   

Thumbs-down on the dodo’s mode.   

Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,   

Trawling your dark as owls do.   

Mute as a turnip from the Fourth   

Of July to All Fools’ Day,

O high-riser, my little loaf.

Vague as fog and looked for like mail.   

Farther off than Australia.

Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.   

Snug as a bud and at home   

Like a sprat in a pickle jug.   

A creel of eels, all ripples.   

Jumpy as a Mexican bean.   

Right, like a well-done sum.   

A clean slate, with your own face on.

My Owen. My son.  My beautiful clean slate.