I promised myself as I biked home, that I would always, no matter what, go to the window that overlooks the corner of 38th and Angeline and wave goodbye, for at least as long as I’m needed. We were in our second week of preschool, and to say it had been hard would be an understatement. Traumatic would be more accurate. Dropping my son off at preschool those first few weeks was one of the most emotionally draining stretches of parenting that I can recall. I wasn’t prepared for just how hard this would be.
For two years, my son was part of a nannyshare with two other kids, which occurred half-time at our house, half at a neighbor’s. Our nanny became like family, and the share served as a comfortable and supportive setting for our son’s early development. When he turned 2.5, we learned he’d gotten into the preschool we wanted. For a few weeks, we debated whether this was the right decision for our family, ultimately deciding to accept the opening. The last day of nannyshare was July 2. On July 7th, he started preschool.
That classic first day of school smile — before the goodbyes begin. (Image: Casey Funke)
In starting preschool, our son went from a comfortable arrangement to a brand new setting where he would be the youngest of 15 kids in his class. Where he would have new teachers, new classmates, new routines, and new responsibilities. He responded as anyone might, with skepticism, trepidation, and big feelings, which we all had. The experience exposed emotions in me that I wasn’t accustomed to. It made me want to grab him and forcibly make him understand that this was ok, that he was going to be ok. At the same time, it made me want to pick him up, hold him, and never let him go.
We’d sit there outside of school negotiating about going in, and just when I’d think I’d have him convinced, he would break into tears and repeat, “I don’t want dada to leave” through sobs. Ultimately, we’d get inside, we’d make our way down the hall of different colored floor patterns – yellow, to blue, to red, to dark blue, and he’d sometimes distract himself from the painful reality of dad leaving by walking only on the colored strips of floor, hopping from one tile to another, down the hall.
The colorful hallway tiles became part of our daily preschool ritual. (Image: Casey Funke)
Other days, he’d still be in tears, and I’d have to coax him down the corridor with promises of snacks to come and videos of him dancing. We’d get to his classroom, where he’d hesitate again before finally going in. His teachers would greet us with a friendly “Hola, ¿Cómo está chiquito?” The other kids would be sitting around the table, eating breakfast or mulling about with books and toys. They’d greet us with a hearty hello, too. We’d hang his backpack in his cubby and wash our hands before coming over and joining the group. Sometimes his teachers would almost have to pull him off me, and I’d scurry away down the hall without a proper goodbye, hearing him cry out for me as I’d leave.
I got into the habit of going to the corner of the building, where his classroom has two large windows overlooking the street. He’d come to the window with one of his teachers, sometimes other kids too, and wave goodbye, usually through tears. I’d wave back and blow him kisses as I’d bike away. But as the days wore on, more often, he’d have stopped crying by the time he got to the window and I to the corner, and would be smiling and waving as he watched me ride away. Those days would give me hope. We’d get reports at the end of the day from his teachers that he did great, maybe a little crying around nap time, but that was normal, and he was having fun. He’d be happy when we picked him up, excited to tell us about his day. But by the time bedtime rolled around, he’d say preemptively, “I don’t want to go to school,” and I’d know we were in for it again tomorrow.
Every ride to school carries both nerves and hope. (Image: Casey Funke)
We’re just over a month into this new routine, and we’ve seemingly turned a corner, much to everyone’s relief. I can tell he will fit right in at school. His teachers are wonderful, his classmates are too, the admin folks are all delightful, the building is beautiful and clean, its proximity and location are perfect for us, and the community we’ve met is exciting! We made it through a painful stretch. There will be backslides, but we know we made the right choice and can begin to fully appreciate our son’s magnificent ability to adapt. I’m so proud of him. Nobody tells you how hard things can be, so let me.
There is an end to the tunnel, and there is light there. Children are extraordinary.
