I walked him into school this morning, just as I have for the last three years. Monday and Wednesday, off he goes.
He spends his day learning, playing, showing off a little. He talks through rest time and assures me he is ready for kindergarten simply because they won’t take naps. (I know there are countless other reasons he is ready as well.) He helps his teacher, pretends with his friends, and then comes home to me mid-afternoon. We go off on our adventures, or tutor the big kids, or whatever is on the docket that day. He tells me about the people he helped, what silly things he did, and that they didn’t learn anything. When Daddy gets home, he recounts it all again.
This afternoon, I walked in to pick him up, just as I have for the last three years. But today, it was different. It was his last real day of preschool. Sure, he still has his program tomorrow night, and he has his fun day on Wednesday, but today was it. Today was the last nap, the last packed lunch, the last of it. I didn’t realize it was going to hit me so hard when I picked him up.
I’ve been fighting back tears since we walked to the car with all his things. They’re streaming slowly down my face as I recount the very first day, when he was just a two year-old in that big three year-old class. He was young, but I knew he was ready. He loved every bit of it–and he has since then. We have been blessed with amazing teachers and a support system for him that has laid a firm foundation for a love of school in the years to come.
Tomorrow night, he’ll don that red school shirt for the last time, and after this afternoon, I can only imagine the state I’ll be in. He’ll sing at the top of his lungs, do all the motions, peek over every now and then to make sure I’m watching, and then lead us all to his classroom to see his art. He’ll be proud, but not nearly as proud as I am. I love watching him grow and learn–even if it tugs on my heartstrings a little.