Preschool Meltdown

Parenting suffers no shortage of heart-stopping moments. In my personal child-rearing journey, few things have set my knees knocking more than the first day of preschool.

Preschool is not like mommy-and-me class, where you’ve got a room full of teachers, parents, ayis and the occasional grandma. Preschool means that for the first time your child waddles into class for a day of assumed loving support without you. It’s the beginning of an educational journey that parents take on good faith, a lighter wallet and the idea that toddlers belong in the classroom in the first place. You leave your child in the care of others and are politely invited to never attend class again. There are some helpful strategies explained in parenting books on this topic. Ways to cope with the assumed cling-to-legs, melt-down, freak-out, kicking and screaming that may ensue during this transition. And I’m just talking about the parents.

Part of me wonders how this could be happening in the first place. Is it really possible that I’m sending my daughter – the jaundiced baby whose hair pattern at birth resembled George Costanza’s – to become a little person who wears a uniform? To school? Grow up? How dare she! But those chubby legs have grown long and tan from pretending to be a graceful mermaid in the pool this summer. Her eyebrows are darker, and the hair I never imagined would grow in is now a downy, uncontrollable mess, kind of like a baby penguin. She’s found a way with words in order to solidly tell off her older brother. There is of course a lovely magic in watching her growing up, but also the occasional pain of seeing what can only be described as my heart walking and talking outside of my body and the acute knowledge that everything is passing.

I think every mom who sends their kid off to school for the first time gets a free pass to be sad, confused or even a full-blown wreck. When my first child started school, to quiet any fears that I was hurling a 2-year-old into a flame-licked hell, we visited the beautiful classroom so many times beforehand that school may as well have already started. When classes did begin, I stood outside and waited, listening for him to miss me, which would mean I’d get to take him home. The ensuing silence made me realize that I may as well have spent the day trying to reattach our umbilical cord, making it as short as I could, and then tugging on it every time I felt I needed to tell him something.

Surely it will be different the second time around. It still feels new though, the love and fear all tucked into one big event. Perhaps it’s taken on a more significant tone since we decided that two children feels like the right number for us, and this will be the last time I send a child off to school for the first time.

Like many moms seeing their kids off, I’ll be cheerful, supportive and positive because that’s the kind of experience I want her to have. There will be hugs and enthusiastic waves, although my daughter has gleaned I’m more the awkward hand-wringer than enthusiastic waver. But at least she’ll see I’m trying.

Parenting is like any creative endeavor. You can start with a big idea, but in the end, it’s the bits that are surprising and messy which contain the things that are most beautiful and true. And no matter how much planning and thought goes in, there is no last stand for a parent. The concern for your child is as long as the randomness and milestones of life itself.

This fall, I look forward to the day that I will joyfully drop off my daughter and believe it will happen like that. My fears have been allayed by knowing the school a bit better now, but also by a belief that her mastering new challenges, making new friends and developing deeper interests are just as important as the time we’ve had together at home. I know we’ll both cheerfully wave to one another, and as I watch my heart walk into the classroom, I’ll tell her how happy I am that she’s starting a new adventure and I’ll truly mean it.