So for the past few weeks my son has been able to find his friend easily in the playground, and then he leaves the comfort of our company to run free and happy to his friend; they hold hands and take their place in the playground. Alas this morning his friend was not to be found. The temperature was below zero, and we stood, and walked, and shivered in vain. As the time wore on my son moved from holding my hand, to clutching it, to clutching my arm, and then holding my entire arm with two of his. Sigh. And then the bell rang, and he held tight until I was in the school building with him, us inbetween two of his kindergarten classmates, with him crying, and me trying to pry myself loose.
Being in the school might not have been so bad if I had bothered to comb my hair and put an elastic in it, rather than have it poking out here and there from the braid I had slept on the night before. And also perhaps if the hem of my pajama bottoms weren't peaking out from under my long skirt, as I was planning to retreat back to the bedroom to read when I got home. Is it any wonder my son doesn't want to let me go, as he more than likely wants to come back home and curl up in bed with a good book too.
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