The Little Session
I still don’t know how to process the fact that she will start kindergarten next week, but I’m trying. I wonder how I’ll feel next week when she really walks through the doors and I walk away. We’ve done it before, really, the past two years at preschool. And it’s only a half day. And I think by then that I’ll be totally fine and so will she. But somehow it feels bigger.
We went to visit today and meet her teacher and my tears started falling. The lump was so huge in my throat that I could barely get out my name to introduce myself to her teacher. Thank goodness for randomly running into an old, lovely friend just two doors down across the hall – I didn’t even know she worked in the school and it was such a welcome change in direction that it cured me on the spot. But I could feel Mia getting antsy. I could feel the wiggle in her body and the jumpiness in her step – she was holding something in, not sure how to process. She gets weird when she feels like that and I knew the dam was about to break.
It’s silly, really. For me, at least. I’m old enough to know that it will all be fine – of course it always is! We will find our new norm and be so happy to have a routine again. I just can’t seem to get past the fact that it has actually been over five years since all of this began. How is that even possible?
We started in Denver in the apartment with no real bedrooms and no doors other than closets and the bathroom. We moved to the cave apartment without a bedroom for you, but it had an “office” with a door and that was just fine. We moved across the country and lived with my parents. We bought our little house and moved in and gave you a baby brother and still you weren’t even two. I struggled and we struggled and we finagled every possible angle to make sure we spent our time with you two and I will never regret these years that we’ve struggled in the grand scheme of things for the sake of being with you.
These precious tiny years, how is it possible that they are truly over already? It can’t possibly have been six years ago this fall that I found out that you existed and I couldn’t even breathe at the hugeness of it all. I finally went to the nearest church to kneel at an altar and pray because I didn’t know what else to do with myself. How on earth could I swallow the magnitude of another human being entrusted to my care?
Now, I can hardly breathe at the thought of you leaving.
And here we are today. Visiting your classroom before you start school next week. Meeting your new teacher and new friends.
She held it together until about 10 seconds before we left, just as we were going through the double doors to leave. A single “no” as an answer to her request for a frisbee (they were all gone) set her on the path to tears and by the time we got out the door she was full-on sobbing and didn’t stop for a solid half hour. She was crying out her sadness and her overwhelmed feelings and her fright and her nervousness that she couldn’t quite articulate. The floodgates opened and suddenly she was heaving and sobbing and we drove home and we were laying in bed, me holding her tightly and helping her to get it all out. The worry about a new teacher and new classroom. Sadness that every single friend she knows from preschool is in class together, across the hallway without her. Making new friends. Leaving me. Being gone and missing her brother everyday.
It all suddenly feels so much more real – her little person feelings. I don’t mean that disrespectfully, quite the opposite. I just mean that I’m not sure where to go from here because I don’t know how much I want to share, for her sake. I share a lot on this blog, but also next to nothing.
Still, I didn’t know what to do with myself. So I decided this morning that we were going to take pictures today as we were out and convince myself to see the perspective that you are, indeed, still very little. (I offered you a bribe of $1 to spend on anything you want in the Target dollar bins and you were thrilled.) You are big, oh so big, but really you’re still little.