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preschool

Coming to terms with preschool graduation

Until just now, I found the thought of pre-school graduation mildly sickening. Something for wealthy kids in uniforms, for overly sentimental, clingy parents who iron their pants.

But here I am. Looking forward to it. Wanting it. Needing a ceremony to help me say goodbye to the school that has been a refuge for me as a parent-in-training.

Jo’s school is a co-op, so I, like all the other parents, have been required to teach there once a week. Monday mornings for the past 2 years have been me, 4 other parents dosing caffeine, 2 teaching professionals and swarm of 26 pre-schoolers.

That first year was about recovering from the shame of having a very phyiscal boy. I just kept showing up every week, peeling Jo’s hot fist out of another kid’s hair, taking a deep breath as I helped the train kids put their track back together after Jo crashed through on his way to the bookshelf. The teachers there kept reminding me of Jo’s goodness. And the other parents didn’t cast me out. Sometimes, their kids acted like neanderthals too, which was always a relief.

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Snack time was also a relief.

This second year has been about slowing down and listening. “I see that you both want to sit in the same chair. What should we do?” And then I just stay there in the silence that follows, crouched down, looking at their open faces. “No. I can’t let you take the chair away. I’m going to hold it right here while we figure out what to do.” Then Voila! after 3 LONG minutes of questions, tears and ideas, it’s over. “Oh, you wanted the chair because it’s red and she wanted it because it’s next to a friend. Let’s get that other chair and move it over here too.”

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These last weeks I’ve been surveying the dreamy landscape we’ve all created. Watching from afar as two kids tugging at the same cape decide to wear hats instead. Looking up from the tire swing to see a trio working out how to let another kid in on the magic ninja freeze tag game. And feeling like we belong. Because sometimes, other parents look just as cracked-out as me when they drop off their older kid with a sweaty, hollering toddler in tow.

What a gift it has been to have this school embrace Jo and me as we are. Unshowered and exhausted, kicking and screaming, easy and playful, nervous and open. Somehow, there’s been enough room for all of it.

Damn it. I’m totally going to be in the front row. Sitting in a chair too small for me. And crying all over myself at effing pre-school graduation.

Waxing poetic about time, treasure and sisters

There are moments of sweetness I can hardly describe. The kind of sweetness that aches, that wraps its tiny fingers around your heart and squeezes a little bit too hard. It’s the sweetness of endings and beginnings. Of beginnings as endings.

My sister had a baby this week, and I was there. She rested her head on my shoulder as she slumped her back forward to receive an epidural. I rubbed her feet and laughed with her while we waited. I was there, and I looked into her face while she collected her energy and courage between pushes. Her face calm, fierce, focused.

Today is Jo’s last day of preschool before summer. I lingered with Cal at circle time and listened while Jo’s teacher told him and his class about the treasure hunt. All those smooth, soft, warm 3 and 4 year olds sitting cross legged on the carpet, listening.

“There might be times when you’re hunting that you just want everything. When you see a big pile of treasure and you want it and all the treasure in the world for yourself. When you feel that way, you can put your hand on your heart like this and say, ‘I have gold fever.’ When you have gold fever, it’s a good idea to slow down, and come in to the snack table and have a little bit of water, and maybe a snack. And then you can put your hand on your chest again and say, ‘There’s enough treasure for everybody.'”

As I sit here, writing this, Jo is probably surveying his gold, nestled in his treasure bag, or digging deeper into the sandbox for more booty, or treating his gold fever with some celery and hummus. And my sister is probably looking down at that new girl of hers, cupping her tiny head in her palm, smoothing her black hair down with the rhythmic stroke of a thumb.

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Time is passing, just flowing right through. It brings babies, it takes childhoods, it grows chickens and firmly closes doors behind us. No more preschool. No more pregnancy. But this now. Treasure hunting. Newborn nieces. Tree limbs arcing up to sun and wind.

The passage of time is not lost on us. But we get lost inside it sometimes. The monotony can be a real trickster. Today is the same as yesterday. Time for the Wednesday routine again. Wake, run around, sleep, repeat.

Thank goodness for endings. And beginnings. The bookends of time. They hold us upright and keep us honest. They remind, with their firmness, that things can change. Sisters can become mothers. Boys can become treasure hunters. Life can be unbearably good.