So there I was, sitting on a kiddie-sized bench, with my legs almost to my chin, white-knuckled from clutching my bag in anxiety, while slow bullets of tension-laden sweat were dripping from my brow. Why? Because Basti was wailing behind closed classroom doors.
My heart wrenched with every cry and I wanted to cry myself. I wanted to barge in and tell Basti that I was right there but I knew that wasn’t going to be good for him. I kept waiting for the teacher to come and out and ask me to come in, but it didn’t happen.
So I waited. For an hour I heard him cry. Endlessly, painfully, despairingly, desperately cry.
And then after an hour, the doors opened and the kids came out. I was expecting a tear-stricken, red face led by an exasperated teacher. Instead, out comes a jolly, excited toddler who gives me a big hug and says, “Mama! I want to eat cookies!”
So it turns out, all his crying was tearless. He did all the activities – ALL of them – painting, drawing, singing, reading a book, playing with dough, playing with toy animals – WHILE CRYING. With no tears.
Oh you little scrapper you.
Tomorrow will be better.
And as a result, my usual goofy passenger looked like this on the way home.
Serves you right, you little bug.