The Boy starts school tomorrow — middle school — and I can't sleep tonight.
Sixth grade. I met his daddy in the eighth grade. He'll have a locker, and time before and after classes to hang out with people. I remember myself at that age.
Things could go really well, or it could all go horribly wrong.
I can't help it, I worry about The Boy. This is when he will have to start making a lot more of his own decisions. He knows right from wrong and, most of the time, really wants to do what's right (provided it doesn't require a great deal of exertion on his part.)
There will be plenty of girls who think he's cute, and plenty of guys who want to beat his ass.
He knows I love him — that I will defend him if his actions warrant it and stand beside him even if they don't.
I hope he knows I believe in him but that he can come to me if he's unsure.
I hope he cannot see how nervous I am for him — how fearful I am that I have somehow failed him.