I know what I am supposed to be feeling right now.
As I approach the day I’ll send my only child to preschool for the first time, I am supposed to be tearful. Nervous. Bemoaning the passage of time. I am supposed to hold back tears as I send him into his classroom, only to collapse weeping in the car.
I won’t lie, I am feeling all those things, a little bit. It’s hard to believe that the baby I brought home from the hospital is now taking his first steps out of the nest.
And after four years of him being almost completely under my care, it’s unnerving to imagine someone else in that role. Will his classmates change him, take away his cheerful quirkiness? Will he come home that first-day cursing, or kicking the dog? (Yeah, I know, my imagination’s gone a little too far with this. It’s a church preschool, not a kiddie version of Sing Sing.)
But bigger than those nervous feelings is my joy at having gotten this far, my anticipation of the changes to come. I am simply jumping out of my skin with excitement, for my son and for myself.
This is where it all begins. This is where women and men who are much better teachers than I am will show him how to make letters and do basic math. This is where reading, writing, and ‘rithmetic become more than just stuff Mommy talks about. This is where his world expands.
I’ve poured myself out for him, time and again. I’ve taught him letters, numbers, colors, and shapes. I’ve taught him to say “please” “thank you” and “excuse me”; I’ve taught him about sharing and saying you’re sorry and making a friend feel better.
I’ve shown him big airplanes and tiny ants; goofy cartoons and serious paintings. When he’s asked, I’ve explained presidential elections, electrical circuits, immunizations, the concept of a soul, combustion engines, death, and taxes. (Really. Not kidding about any of that. Thanks to a well-placed cemetery and tax office, death and taxes were even in the same car ride.)
I’ve given my son the best start I could, but now he needs more. More to stoke his imagination, more to get the gears in his brain turning, more to help him see all the wonderful things he can do. And I get to watch.
This time next year, he might be reading. (For a bookworm like me, this is the milestone to end all milestones.) In five years, he could be deep into art; in 10, discovering a love for science. The sheer breadth of possibilities open to him makes me tear up. And as I watch him walk into his classroom next week, that’s what I’ll be thinking of: all the things he can be, and will be, and wants to be.
But it’s not all about my nerdy kvelling; as I said above, I’m excited for myself, too. For the first time since he dropped his nap nearly two years ago, I’ll have guaranteed time to myself. Time to work, time to exercise, time to run errands, time for those housewifely tasks that taunt me as I set up yet another Hot Wheels racecourse.
And best of all: time to do nothing. Time to sit and listen to the clock tick, time to decide which of the porch chairs is the most comfortable, time to steep a perfect cup of tea. Time to rediscover, after four years of intense, time-consuming, nonstop parenting, what makes me me.
And then, I’ll have time to miss my little boy. Who is, after all, only four, and will need a snack when he gets home. Learning is hungry work.
