My four-year-old started a new preschool today, his last year of preschool before he ventures into the jungle that is kindergarten next year. He carefully chose his Avengers t-shirt last night and laid it out like a soldier preparing his suit of armor before battle. I, of course, took pictures for the photo album, and then loaded everyone into the car. When we arrived at preschool, I barely got a hug before he was swallowed up by the crowd of 4 and 5-year-olds intent on chasing the terrified classroom bunny. He didn't even look back when I frantically waved and shouted good-bye. Forget teenage angst. True rejection comes in parenthood.
The baby also went to daycare for the first time today. We were lucky to have my parents and mother-in-law keep her last school year. I will be the first to admit that I can be outright neurotic when it comes to my children. I believe in professionally installed car seats, life vests, and never running with sharp objects. So first days of daycare are more than a little traumatic, mostly for me, not the children. I stayed for about an hour to reassure myself that this lovely house filled with children and toys was not, in fact, a cover for a ring of sex slave traders.
While I was there, one of the older boys swung his foot out and kicked my daughter square in the cheekbone. When I was able to resume breathing again, my first thought was to take this kid out. I soon came to my senses, as I would have felt pretty silly tackling a two-year-old to the ground. I turned my attention to my daughter, who by this time, had stuck her lower lip out so far a singing frog could have tap-danced there. Next came the wailing and outstretched arms, so I picked her up and cuddled her until the lip was safely back in place. Finally, I had to leave or risk looking like the hovering nutcase that I already freely admit that I am. K shed not a tear, but I arrived at my 10:00 appointment looking like a raccoon.
So what does this have to do with Silverstein? In his poem "The Bridge," he wrote:
“This bridge will only take you halfway there, to those mysterious lands you long to see. Through gypsy camps and swirling Arab fair, and moonlit woods where unicorns run free. So come and walk awhile with me and share the twisting trails and wonderous worlds I've known. But this bridge will only take you halfway there. The last few steps you have to take alone.”
The sad irony of parenting is that, if I do it right, someday (in the very far, far distant future) my kids won't need me (reaching for my Kleenex) anymore. I get to walk with them for a while, show them all the beauty and wonder the world has to offer, and then eventually, I will have to let them go and allow them to cross the bridge on their own. I feel so privileged to have this time with them while they are young. All hope is not lost though, because while I was blubbering after daycare drop-off this morning, I picked up the phone and called my mommy.
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