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Every September for six out of the past seven years, I have dropped (at least) one of the kids off at the same preschool.
And every year, as soon as I leave my little three or four-year-old in the classroom, I walk back down the hallway toward the front entrance bawling my brains out.
(At least) one of the kids has also had a hard time separating each year, and I have stressed out about it, hanging around in the lobby or the parking lot for an extra few minutes, certain the teachers would need to come get me because my child was inconsolable.
Of course, that never happened.
Today was Number 7’s first day of preschool.
She was excited to go. She woke up at 6:45, got herself dressed, and came downstairs with her sneakers and her backpack on.
We didn’t have to leave for another two hours, but she was ready, dammit. And she was not taking that backpack off her back no matter what.
I was happy she was excited. This is the first time she’s really gone anywhere without a sibling nearby, so I wasn’t sure how she would handle it. I hoped she’d be fine, but I kind of knew better.
I entered the classroom with her, hoping for the best but planning for the worst.
The procedure is always the same. Hang up your backpack and then get in line to wash your hands at the sink. Usually the parents don’t stay for this part, but on the first day, they often wait with their kids.
Today was no exception.
Every kid had at least one parent with him or her.
And this year, it appears as though every mom in the class is either fourteen months pregnant or has just given birth to the world’s smallest and cutest baby.
I was surrounded by about to burst moms and little babies. Reminders that everyone else except for me would still get to do the preschool thing again after this kid.
I was sad for a little while.
Like three tenths of a second maybe.
Because while I do miss the smell and the sounds of those tiny little babies, and while I LOVED being pregnant, I don’t miss most of the other things.
Last year I did. But not this year.
I don’t miss dragging that fucking stroller out of the back of my car. I don’t miss schlepping that baby carrier around. I don’t miss having to do pretty much everything one-handed. I don’t miss waking up in the middle of the night to feed my kid or change a diaper.
Nope.
For the first time in, well, ever, I think I have accepted being at this stage of my life. I think I actually welcome it.
Rather than feeling envious of those ladies who are about to give birth at any moment, I feel content.
So I looked at those little babies and those low-carrying moms, those moms documenting every moment, taking pictures and feeling hesitant to leave, and I was glad I wasn’t one of them.While they were doting on their kids and being a little bit overprotective, I was prodding Number 7 to wash her hands and reminding her this was the only day I’d stand with her in the hand-washing line.
Number 7 did great until, of course, it was time for me to leave. Then she did the leg grab, hung on for dear life, and would not let go. And then the tears started.
It was not really any different than last year. Or the year before that. Or the year before that.
Except for one thing.
This year, I didn’t join in the crying. And I didn’t spend one second stressing over whether or not Number 7 would get her shit together.
Instead, I pried her off my leg, handed her off to her teacher, hurried out the door, and speed walked down the hallway.
And for the first time ever, instead of feeling devastated after dropping my child off for the first day of preschool, I felt ecstatic!
YES! FREEDOM!
For a quick second I felt a little bit guilty.
This was my last first day of preschool ever.
I should be a mess!
But I wasn’t. Because I’m ready.
I’m finally ready.
I’m ready for less chaos. I’m ready for a civilized morning. I’m ready to actually enjoy a cup of coffee rather than chugging it in order to survive. I’m ready to go to the grocery store without strapping and unstrapping a kid from the car seat fifteen times before noon. I’m ready to be able to do whatever the fuck I feel like for a couple hours every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning.
I’m ready for the next phase of my life.
And that feels pretty good.
My first born is going to preschool for the first time on Monday and I’m ready because he’s ready. He’s always been very independent, since birth. In fact I’m not even taking him, his dad is. And after reading this, I feel a little bad that I’m not a dotting mom either, not with him. But I guess it’s because he doesn’t need me to be. My daughter though, she’s a whole different story. She’s a clinger and she’ll be going to the babysitter’s by herself for the first time on Monday… that could be very tough for her… and me.