Kindergarten starts on Monday, so between now and then I am white-knuckling the days. I veer between “I’m not ready!” and “Fucking hell, can I get a village?” Sometimes I get schmoopy. Sometimes I get anguished. Sometimes I have the trots. Sometimes I think I’m going to run away to Montana and wait tables and have sex with cowboys. Sometimes I think it’s been about fifteen minutes since he was a baby. Sometimes it feels like he must be driving the car and shaving by now.

We got the official class letter from his teacher yesterday, and I couldn’t get through it without sniffling and plotzing.

“You cry so much,” my son said. “I’m going to help you.”

Of course my moods are not his responsibility, but under his own steam he came up with a plan: scaring me. I guess he reasoned that having the shit scared out of me will distract me from my tearful emotions. I have to say that he’s right–it does work, at least temporarily, when he jumps out from behind the door as I’m leaving the bathroom and yells, “ATTACK!” I forget all about our rite of passage and nearly soil myself instead. Babies are like cats with bells, but the five-year-old can be stealthy enough to give you a legitimate shock.

Helps with the hiccups, too.