Sunday, August 26, 2018

The Paradox of Preschool


First, let’s just say it.  It goes fast.  No, wait.  It doesn’t.  But it does.

I send my 3rd child off to pre-k tomorrow morning and while there have been days that have lasted, I swear it, 50+ hours, the past 5 years have just zipped on by.

I remember the hot summer of my pregnancy with him, my ever-swollen ankles.  I remember how we arrived at the hospital a mere 11 minutes before he was born {let’s be honest…I’ll never ever forget that}.  I remember his first smiles, in the baby swing that was set up in the kitchen in our first home that was never meant for 5 humans to share.  I remember his first steps, and the hours we spent in speech therapy waiting on the first words.  I remember wiping tears from my eyes when he looked up at the night sky and exclaimed “dark!”, one of the first spontaneous words he spoke.  All of this talk about speech is funny, because now the same child never stops talking.  Ever.

Before I lose you, never fear…I remember the other things, too.  I remember cleaning out pair after pair of underwear as we potty-trained {he wasn’t easy}.  I remember throwing lots of them away, too.  I remember wondering why on earth I ever thought having a third child was a good idea {that was just this morning}.  I remember the throw-down fit we had in the middle of an elementary school assembly we were attending for the older two kids.  I remember the 30-minute tantrum because the bag containing his cookie from Starbucks wasn’t folded correctly.

Amidst all these tender and not-so-sweet moments catalogued forever in my brain, it’s time to decorate the assigned tote bag, don the laminated name tag, and send this boy off to pester another woman for 3 hours per day.

And that, right there, is the paradox of it all.  I have been earnestly waiting for this spirited child to spend a few hours away, to have a break, to not answer 5,000 questions about dogs and microwaves and rocketships and q-tips.  He has a little brother who will relish the alone time with mom, and the 3 hours will be filled with errands and work and glorious trips to Target with only one child.

But on this, the eve of the big send-off, I’m wondering if I can’t just have another week.  Just a little more time enjoying the child who pushes the envelope and is a pioneer into the realms of his mother’s sanity.  I want a break from him, and I simultaneously want more time with him.  Now that it’s here, I’m wondering how it came so quickly.

In the morning we’ll surely make more memories for me to file away; his nervous smile as he walks in, his gleeful hug as I pick him up.  In a few weeks’ time we’ll have a new routine, and I will wonder what I did before preschool {and then in June I’ll swiftly remember}. 


This is nowhere near the end, but it is something.  And like many of the ‘somethings’, this one pulls at the heartstrings a little.