'I'm not going to kindergarten'

I spent the summer listening to my 5-year-old son tell me how he wasn't going to kindergarten. He told me at the pool, at the ice cream store, at the library, while riding his bike, while jumping off a boulder into the Yampa River in Colorado.

"Mom, I'm not going to kindergarten," he'd say. Matter of fact, as if he were asking for a hot dog.

We spent the summer in Colorado, away from his friends, his father, his dogs. His 8-year-old and 3-year-old sisters quickly embraced their Rocky Mountain lifestyle. My son took a little longer to warm up; he's never been good at transitions. But soon he was jumping off the high dive, riding horses, and maneuvering a two-wheeler around the neighborhood.

As fall approached, he began an even bigger transition.

When we received the letter from school indicating that his kindergarten teacher would be the same one his older sister had three years before, his face lit up and he gave her a celebratory hug.

But when I asked him to do a workbook later that week, he said: "I don't need to. I'm not going to kindergarten."

Still, I knew he could handle kindergarten. I knew deep down he really wanted to go. He was ready to go. I was ready to let him go. Willing, even. I knew this because:

1. He could ride a bike. Learning to ride a bike takes patience, coordination, determination, and courage - all transferable skills for kindergarten.

2. He has just spent 10 weeks out of his element, where he had to make new friends and try new things without the comfort of his father or his dogs waiting for him at home every night. Kindergarten is being out of your element.

3. He wouldn't be alone; his older sister would be helping him through.

And when the first day of school finally arrived, she was there right from the start.

"I've been waiting my whole life to ride the bus with you," she said, as she shook her little brother by the shoulders, waking him that morning.

For three years, my son had stood in his jammies on the front stoop as he waved goodbye to his older sister. Today, it was his turn.

As the bus pulled up on that Thursday morning, my heart raced. Though I knew he'd thrive in kindergarten, I was still unsure about exactly how it would play out. After all, this was the child that clung to my leg - like a 50-pound appendage - every time I tried to drop him off at camp.

It was a picture-perfect September day: blue sky, no humidity - if we weren't waiting for the bus, we'd probably be heading to the beach.

At 7:42 a.m., the bus rounded the corner. My husband got out the camera and started shooting pictures. My son was first in line, eager to board. Before he disappeared onto the bus, he looked over his shoulder back at us, his little sister on the stoop, the dog's faces in the window, his old life.

The kids filed up the stairs. He chose the first seat and pressed his smiling face against the window pane. His sister, sitting next to him, smiled and waved at us.

As the bus lurched forward, I noticed a crinkle in his forehead, as if he'd changed his mind. Later, in the kitchen, reviewing the digital images, my husband and I confirmed the fear.

But it was too late. He was gone. Just like that.

The baby in diapers was now a kid with a whiffle cut, a new backpack, and sneakers, riding with his sister to school. How did that happen?

The next day, he got on the bus. No crinkle. Old hat already.

It's been more than a week. He still sits near the front, with the other kindergartners. His sister, however, has moved to the back of the bus.

"Mom," she tells me with some exasperation, "third graders do NOT sit in the front of the bus."

Amy van Aarem lives in Hingham, and can be reached at amyvanaarem@hotmail.com.