I love to stand with the other parents and grandparents, on the sidewalk just outside the school, when the teacher struggles to contain the crowd as she opens the gate, and a stream of littleness comes flowing out and scatters in a moment of excited chaos. And I see that one little face searching the crowd for mine, and the moment of recognition that shows both relief and anticipation as he can barely contain the words that will soon come pouring out, telling all about the day, the new things he learned, the new friends he made, that tomorrow his table has show and tell, that a boy pushed him on the playground, that he doesn't like the mean lady with the whistle, and on and on and on with almost no pause, all the way home right on through lunch.
I especially love the little stories, some imaginary but laced with facts. Which stories, I'm instructed, I must never, ever, ever tell anyone.
And for a short time I get to see the world through the eyes of a five-year old boy.
And here I thought it was going to be hard to fit this new duty into my daily schedule.