Mother's Intuition or Friday the 13th Paranoia

As I packed his lunch this morning, I got that sick feeling in my stomach.

Turkey and cheese on white, cheese crackers, Oreos, bottle of half frozen water, and gummies carefully packed in a heavy white sack with handles. I carefully wrote his name, his teacher’s name and his grade on the sack in red magic marker and drew a tiny black paw print at the top.

I dressed him in his Bulldog Pride t-shirt, jeans, and his new blue Converse sneakers, wrapped him carefully in his “big” coat and sent him out to the bus stop with the others.

Then I called him back. I kissed him some more. Five times, right on top of the head and told him that I loved him … again. I looked carefully at his face, admired his sweet smile and blue eyes.

“I gotta go, Mom!”

Five more kisses, on the hood of his jacket, for the sake of time. He ran to the end of the driveway, stopped, and then crossed over just in time to catch the bus. He didn’t wave goodbye.

I waited for the bus to pull away and then I closed the red door and said a little prayer.
He’s not dying or anything. He’s not even sick. He’s going on a field trip. A field trip to the Shriner’s Circus about 70 miles away in Springfield, but to me, today, it may as well be a trip to the moon.

I’ve got that feeling. That feeling that says this is a bad idea … that feeling that screams at me to intervene and protect … to press my hand to his forehead and tell him he has a fever and can’t go to school today, can't go on the trip.

I didn’t, though. I sent him on his way, excitement in tact. I don’t think I’m over-protective and I don’t get that knot in my gut a lot, but today it’s especially tight, pulling on all my organs at once.

Mother’s intuition or Friday the 13th paranoia?