Learning the hard way

The tears hurt like sand. Trailing down flushed cheeks like a salty river and clinging desperately to the last thread of infancy, she demanded not to be left. Feeling the agonizing break of mother-daughter separation spreading to an empty vault in her chest, it was now all frightfully real.

And that was just me, Miss Boo was even worse. 

Ah yes, the years of Preschool have begun for our family and they have been proving quite the emotional test.

‘What a great social and learning environment for her!’ said I.

‘What a wonderful opportunity to spend more one on one time with Miss Moo!’ said I.

‘This is a fantastic, fantastic new stage for everybody!’ said I.

Indeed.

Regardless of how many times a week I walk into a room colourfully decorated in crayon wall murals and curse, when that next stage of inevitable separation is dawning upon us, we still find it hard to accept.

Walking to the Preschool gates I was nothing but confident in the capability of the staff and the outcome of Miss Boo’s development. It was trying to get back out where the problems began to arise.

Taking two teachers to pry her grip from my shoulders, she serenaded my excruciating exit to the tune of ‘Muuuuuuummy, I love you, pleeeeeeeease don’t leave me!!’

It felt longer than the slow walk ending to Rambo.

As if this exercise wasn’t hard enough, it then triggered a similar reaction in Miss Moo who promptly began a desperate attempt to get from my arms and to the aid of her hysterical sister.

‘It’s best to just go quick, straight out,’ said the well-practiced teacher. ‘Just like a bandaid.’

Which at the time offered very little comfort considering that Miss Boo is horribly allergic to bandaids. And apparently to being left at school.

They could package the metaphor any way they liked. They could soothe me with the notion that this was the most popular response for 98% of new starters. They could start singing show tunes backwards for all I was aware. As all those parents before me will testify, walking away from your child as she screams for your comfort is a task that rubs against the grain of your instinct like sandpaper.

‘I was just going to drop her off, pop out with Miss Moo for walk and maybe enjoy a coffee. What. Just. Happened?!’ I questioned my review mirror as I sort the composure to drive away.

It was the type of confused, post-impact response you’d expect from someone who had just been swatted with a falling meteor during a lunch date.

You’re being ridiculous. She’s just around the corner at a preschool, you daft old thing. It’s not like she was mugged from your arms on the street. My inner monologue clicked into gear.

‘What do you know,’ I replied to myself out loud. ‘It was also your idea to buy those horrendous jeans that I’ll never fit into. Hush with you!’

I could not even force myself to see reason in the reaction we’d just experienced.

‘How did this just erupt?!?’

In the days leading up to this moment, both parties were so very well prepared. Although devastated that my little crafting, babychino sharing gal pal was growing too big for my grasp, I had found myself so excited for her new adventure. 

She, in turn, had packed and re-packed her school bag at least five times and had laid out several carefully selected outfit options.

‘Are we ready?’ said I.

‘We’re ready!’ said she. With the ignorance of two mosquitos heading for the intriguing lights of a bug zapper. 

Now that it was here, the day was unfolding grotesquely slow. As it does, of course, when you spend it rocking in the foetal position.

‘She was just so distressed,’ I sobbed into the speaker phone. (‘Tis hard to hold a handset when sifting through baby pictures and crying like a mad women, you see.)

‘The school called and said she was doing fine and had settled quickly,’ Soccer Hubby attempted his own bravery. ‘I’ll finish work early and come to pick her up with you if you like? You know, for her.’ 

Granted, had he been the one to carry out the delicate drop off we would not be in the blabbering mess we currently were. Mainly because the towering collection of muscle and athleticism that is Soccer Hubby, would have melted at the first sign of a quivering lip and scooped Boo up, running for the exit.

Miss Moo and I sat blinking at each other, disoriented and gloomy.

‘Boo?’ said she.

‘No.’ said  I.

‘Mumma?’ said she.

‘Just.’ said I.

I let Moo detach herself from my grip just long enough to force a scribbled list of ‘pros’ in an attempt at bright side vision.

·         The house will remain clean for a few hours.

·         It’s easier to get one kid to the shops than two.

·         During nap time I can write and concentrate on cake decorating

·         I can have uninterrupted cuddles with Miss Moo…until she too grows up and leaves me sad and alone with only a bottle of Moscato to comfort me.

At which point it felt an appropriate time to stop writing and resume the smothering of Moo.

10am…Midday… One… Two… 

Eventually, standing awkwardly punctual at the school gates, we watched Boo skip from her class room and scuttle towards us.

‘I have had the best day ever!’ said Boo.

‘Yes, she’s a great listener. And very quiet isn’t she?’ said Teacher.

‘Her?!’ said I. Best to specify if she was in fact discussing my child. The one who should have been installed with a muting dial at birth.

Her excitement bounced in her curls as she skipped towards the car with glee. Oblivious and bubbling with sunshine, the events that had unfolded only hours earlier had left not even a bruise on her memory. 

I, on the other hand, had been bookmarking the websites of high profile therapists. 

What was this magical place that swallowed screaming children and spat them out smiling and cheerful? More importantly, where does one acquire these skills?

‘How was the rest of you day?’ said Soccer Hubby.

‘I sat on the couch with Moo and sulked like I had won an Oscar.’ said I.

The day had left me nothing short of emotionally exhausted and perplexed. I shook my head and checked to see if a cartoon question mark had formed above me.

‘So what would you have done had she just waved goodbye and let you leave without a tear?’ said he.

Perhaps the whole test of the day was not the idea of being ready or mentally prepared. It was the unbearable fact that if a new step of growth has arrived, it leaves in its wake a part of our baby that we cannot get back. 

‘Well, that’s easy,’ said I. ‘I would have sat on the couch with Moo and sulked like I had won an Oscar. Can we go home now?’