Last August, we were at the beach on our family's final hurrah of summer. One night, I decided to stay up late and go through emails. I realized that I had not heard when Caleb's preschool would be starting. I emailed the director and quickly was informed that despite registering him and paying the fee, they had given away his spot. I was beside myself.
All summer, I had mentally planned for him to be in a 3 year old program at our local high school that would meet for 3 mornings a week for about 90 minutes. I had loved the program when Aaron attended there and it felt like the right fit for letting my baby who was just barely 3 go. So, when my plans were altered, I fell apart. The only other preschool I could find with openings nearby was three days a week. I cried and cried, I had never put any of the other boys in preschool at age 3 and none of them had done preschool more than two days a week.
I had a breakthrough when my mom and best friend both told me the same thing. It wasn't something that I didn't already know, it was just something I refused to believe as truth and live in. They both told me that "each kid is different and that maybe 3 days a week was what Caleb needed" and that it was "okay to do things differently for him than I did for the other 3."
I couldn't figure out why I was so upset, then it finally clicked, I saw this as a failure. I wasn't living up to the expectations that I had for myself about how to be the right kind of mom. The image I had of doing this "mom gig" correctly involved me adding more children & responsibilities to my daily schedule but not increasing my childcare help in any capacity. Letting go of that ridiculous standard was harder than I thought it would be. That first day of preschool, Caleb walked in, cheerfully shouted "Goodbye mom" and ran into his class. There was no hesitation on his part, not a single day this school year. He was totally ready. I was not.
That first week or two of having all 4 boys in school at the same time was strange. All of a sudden after 8 years of always having at least 2 children with me, I suddenly found myself with 2.5 hours three times a week ON MY OWN. It would be cooler to say that I did all sorts of incredible things with that time, but the majority of that time was spent doing everyday, ordinary things. Things like eating lunch, running errands, meetings for my part-time job, catching up on emails, doing laundry, etc. It was spent doing almost nothing spectacular, but along the way, I think I realized that I had been holding my breath for years. I could have conversations without interruptions. I could think without ignoring someone pleading for me to answer the same question for the thousandth time.
I went into it kicking & screaming and came out grateful. This past week, my almost-four-year-old stood in a park where his teacher gave him a 3 year old diploma at his year end picnic. She gave him a big hug and teared up at saying goodbye. I don't think this amazing woman has any idea how difficult it was to initially turn Caleb over to her for those 11 hours each week. She made it so much easier by just loving on him. For loving his amazing traits and his wild, three year old boy traits. I'm not sure who learned more this last year during those 11 hours each week, Caleb or me.
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