samuel's last preschool program

Dear Samuel,

Another year of preschool under your belt.  Ever since your first preschool program (you know the one where you freaked out and wouldn't let me leave the side of the stage, and then crossed your arms and sat down and refused to participate in? Yeah, the one that made me question every parenting skill that I thought I might have had) your programs have given me a little bit of anxiety.  But now the are done.  And let's just say, you got more and more comfortable up there on the stage as the years went by.

Here you are, singing along with your class.  It is no coincidence that the teachers place you right where several of them can reach you at any given time.

This is when you discovered that you had stashed a lollipop in your pocket.  Then you discretely fish for it.  And pull it out.  And then then not so discretely make sure that we know that you have that sucker.  Punk.  Totally teasing us.  

Oh, but this is after you were scratching your nose, then turned to the side, look us in the eye, and scratch the side of your nose to make it look like you are picking your nose.   Where did you learn that trick?  Oh, wait, you are Karl's kid.  You inherited those tricks.  But to pull it out on stage?  During graduation?  We kind of tried to keep straight faces, but it didn't work.  We were rolling.  I had tears I was laughing so hard. 

  

I did admit to your dad that I was a little jealous while "Rocket Scientist Robbie" explained in the microphone how he used his intelligence to help other people while you, "Silly Samuel" (they really gave you all names corresponding with the first letter of your name), fake picked your nose.  But, don't worry, your dad said he wouldn't have it any other way.

For a minute there, I wondered if I paid more attention to your rocket scientist moments and laughed less at your silly moments, then maybe I could make a difference.  But, then, I realized I was giving myself way too much credit.  You, are the way you are.  And we love that about you.

Here you are proud of your tiny diploma.  And then you pretended like you were falling off the stage.  I didn't get a shot of you flapping your arms to stay up.

And for the record, you didn't just fake pick your nose.

I love this picture of you, all shiny in the crowd.

And here you are with your teacher and your friends that I heard about every time I picked you up from school.

And here you are with your proud (and blurry) family.

And let me tell you about the night after graduation was over.  It was time for you to go to sleep and you started to tell me that you were sad that school was over and that you were going to miss your class.  Then you started to sniffle and hide your face.  Then I said, "It's okay if your sad."  And before I knew it you were sobbing.  Seriously sobbing.  Real sobs.  Not the I-am-mad-so-I-will-cry-to-attempt-to-get-my-way sobs or the someone-just-hurt-me sobs.  These were sad sad sad sobs.  You kept saying things like, "We only have one week left" and "My teacher lives in a cabin and I don't know where it is" and "I am going to look at your camera everyday so I can see my teacher's picture."  You had Eva and I crying because we were so sad for you.  You had your dad in from the other room.  We all tried to comfort you, and looked at each other baffled at (and sad for) this Seriously Sad and Sobbing Samuel that we had never seen before.  You tried to fall asleep but then you would start crying again when you thought about your class.  You wanted me to try and find your teacher's number on the computer.  I promised I would print her picture out for you in the morning.  

And in the morning when you saw your dad, the first thing you said is, "I miss my teacher."  When you saw me, you said the same thing.  

Turns out, you are much more that just "Silly Samuel."  You are Sentimental and Sensitive and Sweet and while we're at it, Super, Smart, over all Sensational Samuel.  

(take that, "Rocket Scientist Robbie.")

Congratulations on finishing a great year.  You have grown so much.

Love,

Mom