I still remember the day. Seems like it was just a few years back.

It was a gorgeous, sunny late summer morning that felt more like July than September — which was NOT the reason I was sweating, by the by.

Sigh.

It was the day I officially dropped Kyle off at pre-school for the first time.

Hard gulp.

I was terrified. He was thrilled.

I was crying. He was giddy.

He was skipping and singing. I was stumbling and sobbing.

How was I possibly going to do this? I had never, in the 1,400.0951 days since his early arrival, had I EVER left him alone with strangers.

EVER.

“Bye sweetie, I’ll be back soon. I love you!” I called out to him.

There he went, running off faster than lightning — away from me and into the arms of his teacher, Miss, um, something-or-other.

“Kyle, welcome. Take my hand,” she said smiling.

I deeply disliked her from that moment on. Just kidding… mostly.

“Easy, there Missy Whatever, that’s my little man!” I yelled. Well, in my head, anyway.

Outwardly, I believe I smiled at my nemesis as her perky little self proceeded to encourage my son to “Say bye-bye to Mommy. She’s not allowed in the classroom!”

OH, NO, YOU DI’INT! I heard my inner self scream.

I found myself in the middle of an incredibly irrational ire… combined with a side of sniffling and sobbing, just for good measure.

Luckily for me, I brought a safety net to wrap around myself during the torturous three hours (THREE WHOLE HOURS, PEOPLE) that Kyle would be in class — my own Mommy, there to hold MY hand.

And that’s exactly what she did. For the next three hours, I sobbed and pretended to eat the fat-free blueberry muffin Mom bought me to try cheering me up.

That was almost two decades ago. (Nineteen years, to be exact.) And I have a very eerie feeling that history is just about to repeat itself.

In less than one week (six days, to be exact), that little boy who leapt out of my car sporting his brand new, teeny-tiny polo shirt, mini-Old Navy jeans and light-up Mickey Mouse sneakers as a pre-schooler, will walk across a lighted stage within a large theater and become a Canisius College alumnus.

Wait. What the?

Isn’t this the adorable little boy who bought me a bejeweled ring every year from the Santa’s Workshop at his elementary school?

The young gentleman whose diet consisted of mac-and-cheese and chicken strips for the better part of his toddlership?

The “baldie until the age of three” who now sports a full moustache and beard from time to time?

Yessir, that’s my baby, just about to earn his bachelor’s degree.

And you know who will be cheering her head off in the bleachers, sobbing and squeezing both her Mommy and hubby’s hands? Yup.

Congratulations, sweetie! I’ll be there, wading through the crowd and screaming at the top of my lungs: “I LOVE YOU!”

Kerry, I apologize in advance for being the loudest mom there.

Kimrerer is one proud Mama. Send her kid good wishes via pkimerer@zoominternet.net.