
“Hurry, Mommy,” he said urgently. “We have to go to
preschool!”
My usually pokey toddler – the one whom I normally have to
prod out the door as every shiny thing distracts him along the way – couldn’t
get to his first day of preschool fast enough.
Quinn urged, “Drive faster, Mommy” all the way there. We
arrived a little too early, and my antsy child bounced all over the waiting
area. When the teachers opened the classroom at exactly nine-o’-clock, he shot
through the doorway like his bum was on fire. He was so happy to explore
everything, he barely glanced at me when I kissed him goodbye.
The night before, I had a good cry about my baby boy starting
preschool. And when I saw him the next morning with his backpack on, he appeared
so much older than two-and-a-half, and it was Mommy who had to put on the brave
face, not Quinn. I thought for sure I would lose it when I dropped him off on
his first day, but after seeing his excitement, there was no way I could be
sad.
I didn’t cry at all. Not even in the car on the way home. Instead,
I beamed with pride and optimism. Just like sleeping in his Big Boy Bedroom, it seemed like
preschool would be yet another easy transition for the Q-Man.
I may have gotten my hopes up too soon.
The novelty and excitement of preschool lasted a couple more
days, but it quickly started to wane. Q has transitioned back to his pokey self
in the morning. He still goes willingly into the classroom, but the first-day enthusiasm
has vanished. He doesn’t cry when I leave like a couple of the other kids do,
but he’s definitely sad. He won’t hug or kiss me or tell me goodbye. He just
plays at the sensory table not looking at me as I kiss his cheek.
Knowing Q's sad and I have to leave him there just about kills me. I worry about him all morning, wondering how he's feeling at any given moment. Instead of enjoying my few hours "off" twice a week, I count the minutes until noon when I can go get him and see if he's okay.
Knowing Q's sad and I have to leave him there just about kills me. I worry about him all morning, wondering how he's feeling at any given moment. Instead of enjoying my few hours "off" twice a week, I count the minutes until noon when I can go get him and see if he's okay.
His teachers tell me that Q gets sad at several points
during the morning and asks for Mommy, but they assure me that it’s normal and
he’s not the only child in the class who needs occasional comforting. They read
to him or distract him with an activity, and they sing the “Mommy Song” to him,
which made me tear up when I heard the words. One of his teachers says he
sticks to her like glue. She’s petite with blonde hair, and I wonder if he
feels safe with her because she looks like me.
Quinn’s gotten into the PBS show Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood (based on Mr. Rogers’ “Neighborhood of Make
Believe”), and the lessons really seem to stick with him. He talks about it for
days after he watches the show, so I played the “Grown-Ups Come Back” episode
where Daniel gets dropped off at school and doesn’t want his daddy to leave.
We talked about the show all evening. I explained to Q that
when Mommy or Daddy leave for a little while, he’s always with someone who cares
about him very much and that Mommy and Daddy always come back. “Yeah!” he said
with a smile. “Mommy always comes right back.” He seemed content with that
knowledge.
That night, after Q and I finished his bedtime story and
turned out the light, we snuggled together in his twin bed chatting and singing
songs. “Mommy always comes back,” Quinn interrupted as I was in the middle of
the second verse of “Baby Mine.”
“Yes, I do. Always,” I assured him.
“I cry about you, Mommy,” he said.
My chest tightened and I couldn’t breathe for a moment. Even
if I weren’t eight months pregnant, those five words would have choked me up.
Barely holding it together, I asked, “Do you cry about me at preschool?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“Why do you cry about me?”
“Because I need you.”
I wiped my silent tears in the dark and held my baby boy
close. He no longer seemed older than two-and-a-half.
I thought starting preschool before his baby brother arrived
would be a good thing for Q. I had hoped preschool would be his thing that was just for him, a happy
constant that would remain after the baby comes, providing comfort and familiarity
during a potentially tumultuous and confusing time for him. I had also hoped
preschool would lead to a healthy separation and independence (for both of us),
but it seems as though it’s having the opposite effect.
Everyone assures me that this is just a phase. Hubs says
Quinn needs time to adjust. The teachers say this is common at the beginning of
the school year and that most children are completely over it before the
holiday break.
I hope they’re right. Until then, I'll cry about Quinn, too.