1m2aSandbox

I may have hinted, here and there, that I am a wee bit sad about school starting in general, and my baby starting kindergarten specifically.

A wee bit.

So to everyone who called or emailed yesterday with their condolences –er, sympathy –er, kind words – I say a heart-felt thank you. Deeply.

To those who sent well-meaning words of encouragement along the lines of “this doesn’t have to be an identity crisis”, I thank you for your intention, but you missed my point.

Dear Cora:

In a few short hours you will be starting kindergarten. Something irreversible will have begun, and though I’m loathe to see it happen I’m so proud you’re doing this so well. You’re marching forward with joy and anticipation and I’m doing my best to hide my sorrow so it won’t taint your happiness.

For yes, I am sad. You are my heart, my little love, and I will miss your daily presence in my life. And yes, I know you went to preschool last year, but five hours, three days a week is simply not the same as seven hours, five days a week. Last year we had two days a week for pure Mommy and Cora fun, and those two days were the best parts of my week. If I could put myself in your backpack, I surely would: I have spent the past week furiously cooking make-ahead breakfasts and muffins for lunches, labeling water bottles and laminating favorite photos for you to hide in your backpack. I’ve done everything I can, short of drinking Alice’s shrinking potion and stashing myself in your pocket.

I had a great day with the girls yesterday. A fantastic day. We got up early, played at a sandbox park, played in a sprinkler park, ate lunch outside, hung out with my niece, went ice skating and clothes shopping, ate a quick supper, played around the house – a fantastic day.

Which leads me to this: remember the other day when I said I was ready for school, finally able to move forward and to let go?

Yeah, that was what I call a false positive.

Last week I spent some time with each girl individually, doing whatever fun thing she wanted for a special day together. For Cora, I suggested rock climbing; she’s always been instinctively athletic and coordinated, and it was something I thought she’d enjoy. I mentioned the idea to Cora, who considered it, then vetoed the plan in favor of a trip to our city’s indoor water park.

The waterpark, I should mention, is in the same building as the city’s fitness center, which has, you guessed it, a rock wall. So after we had a fun few hours playing in the pool area, Cora and I sat on a bench and enjoyed a snack while we watched someone climbing. After a few minutes, Cora said thoughtfully, “Is it too late to do rock climbing too?”

Always wanting to encourage my kids to do new things, I said, “Nope!” and we cheerfully raced home to get her sneakers. Twenty minutes later Cora was being tightened into the world’s smallest harness and clipped to the on-staff belayer. Belaying guy? Not sure what the real title is there. At any rate, Cora was snugged up, and she began to climb.

Monday afternoon if you had driven slowly through my neighborhood, looking carefully at all the houses, you would have seen several hundred pairs of eyes peeking out at you from behind curtains. Should you turn onto a certain street, you’d hear several collected inhales from behind closed doors – followed by a sharp exhale when people saw it was “just you”.

Were all the mothers in my area hoping for the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes Prize Patrol van? No way, man – we were looking for something much more important.

Our school teacher’s letter.