I remember during the darkest moments of my son’s infancy, on those endless days when I missed being myself and talking to adults and having a complete thought, I would inevitably call my sister and ask, “When do kids go to preschool? Two and a half? But that’s such a long way away. …”
Now, two years later, I’m preparing for my son’s first day of preschool. And the fact that my first baby is going off to school for the first time is a poignant reminder that parenthood is full of bittersweet moments. I’m sitting here stressing about logistics: Healthy school lunches, whether he’ll be happy there, if we can manage to make it there on time every morning.
And then the (admittedly ridiculous) thoughts start flowing. I think how this is the beginning of a whole host of things I’ll have absolutely no control over — who his friends will be, what he will learn, whether he’ll be picked on. I fast-forward with lightning speed, losing all hope of rational thought, imagining the many ways he could break my heart when he’s in high school (you know, drug addiction, getting someone pregnant, getting arrested), and I have to remind myself to ratchet down the crazy a bit.
Maybe he’ll be a good boy. Maybe he won’t be a troublemaker. Chances are slim, given my teenage experiences, but there’s a chance. Anyway, he’s 2 1/2. Pull yourself together.
And then I remember something my mother says: If you do the job right, they won’t need you at all. I’ll just have to trust that the foundation we’ve laid will carry him through life as safely and happily as possible.
That’s the bitter. Now for the sweet. Who doesn’t feel nostalgic for that first day of school? Every fall, I get an itch to buy new corduroys and colored pens. Now my son will know the magic of that feeling, of crisp autumn days full of possibilities. He’ll learn new things, meet new kids, and slowly figure out how to navigate this wide, crazy world without me. He’ll grow up.
I’ve already had a little taste of his budding freedom. The other day, as I was explaining to him that we were going to school, I said to him in my sweetest mama voice, “Don’t worry. I’m going to be with you the first day, OK?” He said, “No, I want to go by myself.”
Ouch. So this is how it feels, I thought. Learning to let go may be harder than I imagined.
Rina Rapuano is the assistant food and wine editor at Washingtonian magazine and a contributing editor for Museum magazine. She has also written for many local and national magazines and newspapers. E-mail her at [email protected].
