Ruined
By Stacy Bronec
@stacybronec
“I think I’ve ruined him. He starts school tomorrow, and I feel like I’ve lost all my chances with him.” I say.
My husband, Rich, reaches across the console of the car and rests his hand on my arm, “I think you might be overreacting.”
I turn to face the backseat of the car, where a few seconds ago Rhett had stuck his tongue out at me.
“I know he’s not ruined.” I exhale. “But the first five years were all mine,” I say, looking out the window at the fields passing by. “Sometimes he’s disrespectful and doesn’t listen to me, and I wonder if I failed at everything I was supposed to do.”
“Do you think maybe you’re just sad he’s starting school?” he asks.
I shake my head, “A little, but that’s not all I’m feeling.”
In the coming year, he will be in school three days a week. Then the following year, all-day kindergarten. With school starting, it feels like someone took a hammer and smashed our hourglass, the sand slipping through my fingers faster than I can catch it.
I glance back to look at Rhett again. This time he smiles at me as he clutches his raggedy green and white baby blanket, holding it’s edge up to his lips. Over the last few weeks, I’ve been anxious about school starting, but I’ve yet to pinpoint why the butterflies are there.
Later that evening, after packing his backpack, filling his water bottle and tucking him into bed, I lie in my bed in the dark and think about the last five years. Did I let him watch too much TV? How many times did he say, “Come play with me, Mom!” I cringe, thinking of how many times I said, “Not right now, I’m busy.” Time and time again I vowed to myself to take more of an interest in his tractors and trucks, but looking back; I wonder if I tried hard enough.
As I close my eyes, I think of earlier this morning when I tripped over a metal tractor in the kitchen. The pain seared through my foot and I yelled, “Rhett, how many times have I asked you to get your tractors out of my kitchen!”
“Sorry, Mom. That’s my wheat field. I was just farming.” His head dropped as he walked toward his miniature farm equipment.
My stomach clenches as I think about how my words cut him down, and how quick I am to scold him. I fall asleep, wondering if this is what he will remember about his childhood.
The next morning, it’s still dark outside as I walk into Rhett’s room. “Hey buddy, it’s your first day of school! You excited?” I whisper.
He mumbles “Yes,” still half asleep.
I lift him out of his bed, then carry him to the couch, where he curls up with his baby blanket. After breakfast, we drive the 35 miles to town. Seeing the school a block ahead, I nervously glance in the rear-view mirror.
“Do you think he’s going to be scared?” I quietly ask Rich.
He shrugs and says, “I guess we’ll find out.”
We walk him to the classroom and hang up his backpack and jacket on the hooks outside the door. I kneel down to give him a hug and he walks toward the room. He glances back at us for a second, unsure, but he doesn’t cry, and relief washes over me as we walk down the hall.
At 11:30 I park in front of his school and walk to the front door to stand with the other pre-k moms. A few minutes later, I see Rhett come out of the building. He stops and looks around, his red backpack hitting him almost at the back of his knees and it takes a few seconds for him to see me. Once his eyes lock on mine, he starts to run toward me.
“Mom!” he yells as he slams into my legs.
“Hey, buddy. How was it?” I kneel down in front of him and start to take his backpack off.
“It was fun. We had cupcakes!” He says.
A few miles from home, Allie starts whimpering, “I want my unicorn!” Rhett looks over at her and says in a sweet voice, “You want your unicorn? It’s okay, we’ll be home in a few minutes. Do you want to hold my blanket?” I release the breath I didn’t know I was holding, unsure what he was going to say, and reach back to squeeze his hand.
That afternoon, a friend texts and asks how I did on his first day of school. I hesitate before I respond. “I feel bad saying it, but it was fine. I’m used to him being gone all day. He spent most of the summer in the field with his dad; this really didn’t feel that different.”
The best part of Rhett’s summer was getting to spend the majority of his waking hours with his dad in the field during harvest. Most mornings I would drop him off, watching as he climbed the steps of the combine. He’d pause half-way up to turn around and wave, and I’d catch a glimpse of him as a baby, milk-drunk on my lap, instead of this boy standing in front of me.
The first week of school passes, and we start to get into the rhythm of a school schedule. As I’m getting his backpack ready one morning, I remind him, “Rhett, you’re going to ride the bus for the first time today! Grace and Ames will be there too.” His eyes light up—riding the bus with his cousins is the part of school he has been the most excited about.
He and Rich get in the pickup to drive the seven miles to the bus stop. I watch out the window as they drive away, then put on my rubber gloves and start to fill the kitchen sink with hot soapy water. The house is quiet. There won’t be any sibling fights to referee this morning. But there also won’t be any unexpected hugs from Rhett, or random “I love you, Mom,” as he locks his arms around my knees.
A few minutes later, I walk toward the living room window, squinting in an attempt to see the bus stop—but I know it’s too far away. For the first time, he is riding the bus to school. Without me. Tears prick the corners of my eyes.
I take off my gloves and lay them on the side of the sink, then walk to my office and pull his baby book off the shelf. As I flip through the pages, I see photos of just he and I in the rocking chair, the days and weeks stretched out in front of us—school a lifetime away. I turn the pages past all the monthly photos I propped up him for, until he could sit on his own. Although the baby book is his, I notice how it’s really a story of the two of us. When he was born he went from my womb, directly to my chest. In that first year, if I wasn’t taking the picture, I was in the picture with him. There weren’t any moments when I wasn’t there with him—watching him, holding him. I was a constant figure in his life. I turn to the page of “firsts” and read when he walked and slept through the night. Then I pause as my fingers touch where I listed his first word: “Mama.” The last few years he has been such a daddy’s boy, I had forgotten that I was his first word.
As I close the journal, I think of how often he tests my patience and pushes all my buttons—running through the house with his boots on, leaving his toys all over, whining for more snacks, not listening when I ask him to do his chores. As I look at his baby photos on the wall, I wonder if I spent too much time putting my wants in front of him—wishing the time away. Did I show him enough love? Give him enough attention? Did he learn anything from me?
Even though I know the bus and Rhett are gone, I walk back to the window again. I pick up his blanket from the floor, running my fingers over the holes in the fabric. There’s not much left of his blanket, but he loves it despite its imperfections. The holes and tattered edges are evidence that it's been with him through the easy and hard times—a constant by his side. I could tally all of my transgressions in the last five years, and let the guilt overtake me. But remembering how he offered to share his blanket with his sister on the drive home last week, I’m proud of who he is becoming. My five years of raising him haven’t always been easy and we’ve both messed up. (And I know we will continue to have our struggles.) But my apologies and discipline have strengthened us—like stitches and patches. I tuck the blanket into my purse to bring with me when I pick him up from school.
We can’t go back in time to when the blanket and our relationship were new and unblemished—but we are far from ruined.
Guest essay written by Stacy Bronec. Stacy lives with her husband and two young kids in Central Montana, where she found herself living in the middle of nowhere after unexpectedly marrying a farmer. A high school counselor turned stay-at-home-mom, she spends her days surrounded by fields and cows, without a person in sight. Every once and awhile she writes on her blog (usually from her hiding spot in the laundry room) but doesn’t make any promises. You can also find her on Instagram, where she shares about farm life, cake, and kids—in no particular order.
Photo by Lottie Caiella.