First Day of Preschool

Drop-off tears, ponderings on motherhood, and a celebratory cookie cake

Somehow we are not late. We are dressed. Shoes are on. New backpacks are filled with lunches / water bottles / change of clothes / folders. Today is my 4 year old son and 2.5 year old daughter’s very first First Day of Preschool. 

“I’m feeling a little worried and a little excited,” my son, Ethan, says over Taylor Swift’s “State of Grace” in the car. The stoplight turns red.

I turn down his current favorite song. “Tell me more about that, buddy. What’s making you feel worried?” I ask.

“I’m feeling worried I’ll get hurt at the playground,” he replies. 

What I hear is I’m worried Mama won’t be there to comfort me when I’m scared. I think back to the way my 9 month pregnant taut belly erupted with hiccups every afternoon. I placed both hands on my belly and told him, “I’m here, and I can’t wait to meet you.” After he arrived, I wrapped him like a burrito in the blue gingham Solly baby wrap, and wore him, our hearts next to one another, his favorite place to be. I created tracks on our hardwood floors, walking until sweat dripped down my spine, relentless sun soaking into every part of our home. I think to his toddler bedtime requests for 20 hugs and 5 kisses and the way only a big Mama hug makes tears disappear. I’ll always be there, right by you, I want to shout. But I know it’s not true. I won’t be.

The light turns green again, and the foothills of the Appalachian mountains glow in late summer morning haze. I take a deep breath in and out.

“Have you gotten hurt at the playground before? What happened?” I ask, instead of stating all the promises I wish I could make.

“Yes. It hurt really bad,” Ethan replies. His brow furrows, and he kicks the back of the driver’s seat.

“Were you able to get up and play again?” I ask. Goosebumps prickle my airs from full strength air conditioning coming through vents, and condensation hangs on the outside of our car windows. It’s already in the mid-90s, and our clock reads only 8:45am. We are in a record-breaking heatwave, even in the South.

“Yes!” he declares. He turns to look at his sister in the car seat next to his. “What do you think, Annie?”

“I feel all the way excited!” she shouts. Annie shuts the book she is looking through. 

“What about you, Ethan? What do you feel excited about?” I inquire. We turn into the preschool parking lot full of minivans and sweating parents unbuckling children from car seats.

“Eating my lunch from my lunchbox.” he says and points to his big-boy backpack holding his special bento-style lunchbox. 

“Me too!” Annie adds and looks at her floral backpack. The day their backpacks arrived weeks earlier, the kids wore them for hours. They filled the bags with treasures and couldn’t wait to use them for school.

We park, and once both Ethan and Annie are out of the car and buckled into their backpacks, I enclose their warm, little hands in mine. Dozens of parents walk through the parking lot. Our toddlers and preschoolers wearing full size backpacks despite small statures, bags stretching from shoulders to mid-hamstrings, remind me of ants carrying crumbs 10-50 times their weight. 

Energy buzzes like bees’ wings. Moms place bows that have already come undone from their daughters’ hair. Boys run around the fountain in front of the building and look for rocks to throw. Parents remind children to listen and have fun. 

We walk through the front door and down the brightly painted yellow hall. Nerves prickle my stomach, and my braid swishes the back of my neck with each step. It’s time to say good-bye.

I kneel to meet Ethan’s brown eyes. “I love you, God loves you, God is with you,” I promise and give him a tight squeeze. He takes his teacher’s outstretched hand and gives me one last look, eyebrows knit together and mouth in a straight line. He takes slow steps away. 

Annie and I dodge a screaming toddler clutching his mother like a life raft and arrive at her classroom. Her teacher smiles widely, and her long brown hair sways when she waves to us. Annie gives her teacher a hug and runs into the classroom, eager to play. Her blonde hair bounces off her shoulders, and her floral dress sways at her knees. She turns and gives me a big wave, smiling with all her teeth. “Bye, Mama!” she says and gives her attention back to the toy cars.

“I love you, God loves you, God is with you,” I call to her. I take small steps away from the door, clutching only my purse. I stop at the window to watch Annie play. She zooms a car on a ramp and then moves to place a doll in a cradle. Soon two more classmates join her. Tears spring suddenly like a geyser, and I wipe them from my bottom lashes with the side of my index finger. 

//

I think back to my conversation with my kids in the car. How am I feeling? Both worried and excited. 

Worried. What if they don’t make new friends? What if they get hurt? What if they’re sad or miss me and I’m not there? But also, what if they don’t miss me? What if they don’t need me?  Is this the whole point of motherhood -- to grow and nurture and love my children so they don’t need me and then eventually leave me, forget me? 

Excited. What will they learn? Who will they meet? How will they grow? What adventures will they have? This is the first time we’ve been consistently apart, we’ll have space to miss each other! Is this the whole point of motherhood -- to grow and nurture and love my children so they are capable of leaving and building a full life? 

//

I open the door to a quiet, clean house. My eyes widen when I realize it will stay this way for the next three hours. My belly fills with air, and I breathe it out. I make a lavender, vanilla iced latte, and ice clinks in the glass while I stir. I light a citrus candle; the tang tickles my nose, and I watch the flame dance with its reflection on the coffee table. I open my journal and write. I think about my own mom. My cheeks pinch in a genuine smile.

One of our family core values is celebration, and today is a day to celebrate. I decide to surprise the kids with a chocolate chip cookie cake. I turn on Taylor Swift’s “Never Grow Up,” and her lyrics wash over me while I wait for the oven to preheat. Soon flour dots the counter, and vanilla blooms in my nose. Scents of warm butter, sugar, and chocolate fill the kitchen. I wait and wonder and dream.

---

The cookie cake was a smashing success (Sally’s Baking Addiction never disappoints). Ethan and Annie have loved school so far. They come home with big smiles (and big yawns). We’re one week in: I’ve already completed my (Ethan’s) first preschool homework assignment, and both kids have missed school already for sickness (seems about right).