It's the middle of August. For the last week, Justin has been too scared to go to sleep at night. That's when all his worries come out. The doors in his room become terrifying and the animal painting in his room takes on sinister proportions. He can't tolerate being alone anywhere in the house, even for a minute. Bedtimes have become long, drawn-out affairs. Each night, one of us has to lay down with him until he falls asleep.
      One night, he asked me, "Mama, what's grade school?"
      "It's another word for elementary school. After you leave preschool, they give each class a number — like first grade, second grade, third grade."
      "How high does it go? Up to infinity?"
      "No, Justin, usually just up to sixth grade. And kindergarten, where you're going, is sort of like the beginning."
      There's a long silence. Then: "I don't want to go to kindergarten. I wish I could stay in preschool forever."
      "It's hard to make such big changes, Justin. It's kind of scary and exciting all at once."
      He repeats firmly: "I want to stay in preschool forever."
      "Justin, have you noticed how much bigger you are than the younger kids in preschool? If you stayed in preschool, you'd be like a giant." I playfully press my hand down on the top of his head. "Do you want me to squish you down so you don't grow anymore?" "Squeeze you like this so you don't get fatter? Tell your brain not to want to learn to read? Order your feet not to grow?"
      Justin, laughing: "I'd like to be able to grow up and stay in preschool."
      Then his face grows somber again. "I'm scared and excited and worried and sad."
      "Justin, it's natural to have all those feelings."
      "I don't want to leave preschool. I want to stay at Family Network forever!"
      "Justin, do you know that even grown-ups have all of those feelings when they make changes?"
      "Grown-ups don't make changes."
      "Sure they do."
      He looks at me with the total confidence of a five-year-old. "You don't change."
      "Well, not the way I used to. But I still change. And you know Justin, before you were born, before I met Mama Joan, I used to change all the time. I changed who I loved. I changed where I lived. I changed the kind of work I did. I lived in lots of different parts of the country. I lived in New Jersey and Texas and Denver and Detroit and Seattle and Alaska. I lived in so many places, Grandma had to get a new address book just to keep track of where I lived."
      Justin looks at me, dumbfounded. As far as he knows, I've always lived in this house. "Did you own a moving van or something?"
      "No, I just didn't own much stuff. I didn't have furniture or beds or bookcases to cart around. And you know what else? I felt excited and scared and worried and sad when I made all of those changes. Everybody does."
      I can see him taking all this in. Then he returns to his bass note: "I don't want to go to kindergarten!"
      I try to rub his back, but he pushes my hand away. "Justin, I have an idea. How about it you tell me what you're worrying about. Sometimes when you share your worries with someone who cares, they don't seem so bad."
      He looks at me doubtfully, but then begins. "You know what I really don't like about kindergarten?"
      "What, Justin?"
      "That you have to clean up your stuff." This one's my fault. I'm the one who told him that at his new school, kids are expected to clean up one thing before they take out another.
      "Well, I'm the kind of person who doesn't like to clean up. I like living in a pigsty. So when I get to my new school, I'm not going to play with anything. I'm only going to do fantasy play. That way I won't have to clean up." He smiles, pleased that he figured this out all by himself. Then he turns to me. "What do you have to say?"
      "About what, Justin?"
      "About kindergarten."
      "I think you're going to really enjoy kindergarten. I think you're going to have a really good time."
      This doesn't seem to penetrate. He continues with his litany. "You know what else I don't like about kindergarten?"
      "What?"
      "You have to keep your shoes on."
      I try not to smile. I think he got this particular tidbit from his preschool teachers.
      There's a pause. Another worry is making its way to the surface. "You know what makes me really sad?"
      "What, Justin?"
      "That my new school doesn't look like a house." For the last three years, he's been at Family Network, which is comfortably located in a renovated house. "I won't be able to feel at home."
      "But Justin, you've been to your new school. It feels really warm and open."
      "I know. But it's not a house!" His voice is despairing. "It'll be more like going to a factory!"
      I don't say anything. I just keep listening.
      "And you know worries me the most?"
      "What?"
      "That I have to say good-bye to you at the door. That's just too much for me!"
      "Well, maybe we can talk to your teachers and see if I can come inside to say good-bye for awhile."
      There's a silence. Then Justin asks again, "What do you have to say?"
      "Justin, I have confidence in you. I think you're going to do great. And no matter what you feel about kindergarten, your family is going to be right here to support you. Having people care about you and believe in you really helps when you're doing something new."
      He looks at me as if I've just said the most obvious thing in the world. "I know, Mama!"
      It's quiet again. I can sense him winding down, getting ready for sleep. I snuggle down next to him. He doesn't resist my hugs anymore. Just before surrendering to sleep, he says sleepily, "Mama, I've been thinking. You know what I want to be when I grow up? A preschool teacher."