"How is he?"

"He's great!"

"Oh. That's good!"

"Yeah, he is turning eight in a couple of weeks."

"Is he still... you know... sensitive?"

"He's great!"

She (the same preschool teacher that organized Jay and Lola's camp years ago now organizes Feenie's) cupped her hand over her mouth as to whisper but instead said rather loudly in the middle of drop-off a glorified playdate of a preschool camp. "Oh. Good. Because, you know, it was touch and go there for awhile."

"Excuse me?"

"It was touch and go."

"What do you mean?"

She threw her hands about every which way while smiling, as to demonstrate how my son would flail his four-year-old arms around before clinging to my legs as I raced to the parking lot during drop-off, years ago. "He would cry so much. And. All the time." Her eyes closed for a moment.  For what I don't know; but, I was about to take a swing at her while I had the chance.  Before I could act she said, "It was touch and go and I was so worried about you having such a sensitive son. How is he now, honestly?"

"He's fine." I grinded my teeth. Why do I never have a good comeback on-the-spot? I so wanted to say something. Anything. But nothing came out.

"That's good to hear." She chuckled. She chuckled!

"Hugs and kisses Feenie!" I turned my back after our exchange. I glanced over my shoulder, for a moment, to witness my third child enter the room that she was incredibly comfortable in and I fled the scene the same way I did years ago. Only this time around I threw the camp director a nasty glance instead of grasping my heart hoping my child was okay.

The interaction I had with her, consumed me in the parking lot. I sat alone for some time. I dialed my husband's cell phone (I don't text) and got his voice mail. I dialed my mother's cell phone number to vent, but no answer. I did the same for my sister and then my best friend, all no answer. That's my phone chain-of-command by the way. Defeated, I drove home to think.

Yes, I forced my sensitive child to attend summer camp after an un-successfull preschool year full of tears. Yes, I dropped him off and fled. More so. Yes, I forced him to finish up the eight week session of ice skating as he cried bloody murder in the rink because he wanted a fast way out as a three-year-old. Yes, I physically left the swimming pool when he tore his hair out during survival swim lessons (see Marinka's post - best money I ever spent!) because he hated getting his hair wet as a two-year-old. Yes, I cried over many nights of Kumon homework because he claimed he just didn't know how to finish as a five-year-old. Yes, I left many birthday parties half-way through because he bawled over something so simple.  I have a sensitive child.  Not a day passes without me saying...

"I understand words, not tears. Tell me what's bothering you."

"It's okay to cry but save it for something super big so I know it's super serious."

"Take a breath. Enjoy the fresh air. And tell me what's wrong."

"I'm ready to listen just as soon as you are ready to hear."

"I love you too much to argue."

"Wipe away your tears oh em gee I can't handle a sensitive child and write me a letter."

"Words mean more than tears."

You might not agree with me.  And that's totally okay, just click off this site.  But.  I do have a sensitive child - the most loving down-to-earth awesome child any mother would dream of having and any future mate would drool over as being in-touch with his feelings.  He's almost too good to be true.   The best in his class in math, thanks to Kumon.  The most courageous in his age group when tackling the biggest water slide.  The most honest about his accomplishments "if I figured out how to ice skate, I can do anything."   I have no idea what I am doing with him.  But I'm so lucky he's mine.  "I cried because I loved you Mom."  He told me this morning when I asked about his preschool camp.

I know now what I wanted to say to that preschool camp director.  "I know what's best for him.  I am his Mom.  He was, is, and will always be perfect."