Nobody Told Me

That the end of kindergarten would be so sad.

That I would want to sit and sob seeing him rush through those silver gates for the very last time as a 6 yr old, lining up before his bright, pretty, always happy teacher standing with arms open, ready for all the hugging they might require.

That I would be utterly amazed at how quickly that six pound baby I held only a few years ago would suddenly sprout up, and stretch out, and learn to read, and write, and paint, and plant flowers, and sing songs, and keep journals, and make friends, and share, and listen, and argue, and play.

That his name, with the exaggerated A, and the tiny quirky O would look so gosh darn: "official" on all those adorable little construction papered creations stuffed inside his 5$ camouflage backpack.

That he would be the boy with a perfect report card, pulling the teacher's praise, a "shinning example"she would say. And all those friends, so genuinely excited to greet him upon his 11:10 am arrival everyday.

That he would fall in love with the smartest, tallest, blondest girl in the class who knew all the answers and answered them with a heavy lisp, a girl he would ask to borrow money for, on a regular monday, to buy a treat for from the school snack bar.

That he would do so well.
Be so sweet.
And grow so fast.

And graduate kindergarten just like that.

Nobody told me.

 But now I know.