I was nervously waiting among the crowd of stroller-pushing moms and grandparents. I usually wasn't there that early to pick up Noah from preschool, but I was worried about him that day. The school had sent home a note letting us know that his teacher, Mrs. Campbell, was going on extended medical leave.
While they didn't say explicitly what was wrong, I could read between the lines. I knew the language, the euphemisms, the veiled fear and uncertainty. I knew it all too well. Rumors among some of the other parents confirmed my suspicions. Cancer.
The school said they would be finding a high-quality long-term substitute, but since that assurance did not come with a name, I knew it meant, "We're still scrambling to figure out what to do, but we know you just want us to promise it's going to be fine."
I was worried about Noah because he was pretty attached to Mrs. Campbell. She had been his teacher last year, too, and when he showed up in the 4-year-old class the next year and saw her waiting for him...well, I've seldom seen him happier. She was a bit like my mother-in-law, who sadly lived a few states away from us and didn't get to visit often. Mrs. Campbell was like a surrogate grandmother, and she had a soft spot for Noah. It had been during Noah's very first month in her class that his mom died. Cancer.
The big doors opened and a different class of kids came rushing out. They ran up to caretakers and jumped into arms. They held up artwork. They told barely comprehensible stories about their day. Kids whose caretakers weren't there yet moved quietly to a row of benches to wait. One class at a time- that was the system. It kept things from getting chaotic. It was a good system, and as a professional, I appreciated that.
I'm sure a child psychologist would say something about Noah displacing his longing for a maternal presence and attaching to Mrs. Campbell; but to be honest, I didn't care. If it kept him from slipping into the same darkness I had to fight, then so be it. It was Mrs. Campbell that made him so happy to go to school each morning; and it was the prospect of losing her presence in his life that had me pacing around the lobby, waiting for Noah's class to be led out to us. I mean, would he even understand what was going on? How would they explain this to the kids? What if he didn't like the new teacher? It was November- too late to switch schools, and I sure couldn't pull him out. It was hard enough finding time to work with him only in school a half day. At least this year they had lunch in class, so I had a whole 4-hour stretch to get things done in the mornings. The rest needed to wait until after Noah was asleep. Thank goodness I had a job with some flexible hours. How on
earth
did other single parents manage?
The doors opened again. I recognized enough faces to know that Noah would be among them. He walked through the doors, his eyes wandering around. Most of the time he needed to go to the benches for a few minutes, but I had promised I would be there early that day. His hopeful look as he scanned the crowd was priceless. I
love
that kid. He's my whole world. His eyes found mine as I started waving to him. He ran to me and leaped into my arms. I spun around and started carrying him out the door.
"Look! I made a face!" He held up a piece of cardboard with a lot of holes in it. You could poke fingers through different holes, making your fingers to be eyes or a nose, or hair, or a tongue. It was silly, but it was also a great way to talk about the parts of the face. It really was a good school- my son was learning and he enjoyed being there. Noah made funny noises as he wiggled his fingers through the holes.
I got to our car and strapped him into his seat. As I started to pull out of the parking lot, I asked him, "Did you have a new teacher today?" I knew the assistant would still be the same- Ms. Murray, a retired kindergarten teacher who just helped manage things. But she had neither the desire nor the energy to run the class, as she had made clear to me once in a casual conversation when we saw her in the grocery store. The whole time, Noah had just stared at her in disbelief that teachers exist outside the classroom.
"
YEAH
! She's
really
nice. She helped me make my face. Look! I can make a tongue!"
"What's her name?"
"Mrs. Abella. She has freckles on her face. Dad, do I have freckles on my face?"
"No buddy, you don't." We went on to talk all about faces until we got home. It was too cold to play outside that afternoon, so Noah watched a few shows while I finished up some paperwork I had been working on that morning. We played the rest of the afternoon, we made dinner together, and soon it was bedtime. After his story and bedtime prayers, Noah let me turn off the light.
"Dad?" Noah always had questions at bedtime.
"Yeah, bud?"
"Did Mommy have freckles?"
"Just a few- on her nose."
"Did you think they were pretty?"
"I thought they were very pretty."
Noah smiled at that, his face just visible in the faint light of a digital clock on his dresser.
"Dad?"
"Yeah, bud."
"Mrs. Abella is pretty, too."
"I'm sure she is, buddy." With that, I sat silently next to his bed, watching him drift off. True, he could be a real terror at times, zipping around the house and finding new ways to destroy things. He had taken to ramming me with his head when he was angry, and since my crotch was at ramming level, I didn't like that development. But for the most part, he was the sweetest boy. I wanted to protect him from all the pain the world would try to throw his way. Better yet, I wanted to help him be ready and be strong enough to handle that pain. Then maybe he could teach me how to do the same thing.
*******
The next evening, I was having dinner with some of my family at a restaurant. It was Noah's fourth birthday. My parents were in town, my brother and his fiance were there with her little girl, my aunt and uncle who lived just an hour away had come, bringing their teenage twins and, surprisingly, they brought my grandma, too. The twelve of us squeezed around one big corner table, and Noah loved seeing everyone. My dad and uncle kept him laughing, and my cousins even got their noses away from their phones for part of the time.
The poor waitress, though, seemed frazzled and distracted and had a hard time getting our orders right. She was cute, though, so I guessed her tips would be fine, even if her service was lacking that night. I saw Grandma Josie grab her arm and talk to her for a minute. I just hoped for the poor girl's sake that Grandma was at least making sense. Sometimes her mind wasn't what it used to be, which was a shame, because she was a sharp lady. I cringed a little when the waitress blushed and hurried away.
The elephant at the table that evening was the topic of my late wife. It had been just over a year since she died, and people still didn't know how to talk to me. My brother's fiance didn't seem bothered by that, though. Near the end of the meal she said, a little too loudly, "So Brian, are you seeing anyone yet?"
I clenched my jaw and tried to be polite. She was a nice girl, really, just a little clueless on how to talk to people, and she hadn't known Carrie, so she didn't feel the loss in the same way. "No...not yet. I'm mostly just trying to take care of Noah and keep up at work." I looked to my parents for some help, but they were both playing with Noah. Well, at least he didn't have to hear any of this.
"I know some cute girls when you're ready. You'd have to move up our way, though."
"Thanks," I said, preparing my usual response. "That's very kind of you. I'll let you know."
"Hey," my brother whispered, leaning across the table to me. "Maybe you should ask the waitress for her number. Sheeeee's kinda hot." His fiance gave him a playful nudge.
Suddenly, Grandma Josie's head snapped towards us. With stern eyes, she said, "No! The waitress is
off