Ode to Preschool and Mourning the Loss of the First Child

So, here's is my reflection on leaving preschool...

In July of 2010, Chickie started at the preschool that became our second home.  Remember what things were like that summer?  This and this.  Right, this mama was in the belljar.  And, don't forget, the preceding 9 months had been crazy in terms of his childcare since his old beloved daycare closed the previous October, and he had been at a childcare center that was excellent and definiely great in terms of quality, but just not a good fit for him or our family.  Needless to say, it was a rough time.

In the past year or so, as I have done more and more postpartum support, I have developed a tiny niche for doing support for second time moms-- probably because my transition from 1 to 2 was so tough and I have a deep sense of love, loyalty, and a desire to hold up and support other moms as they navigate this change.  I have always said that there's relatively so much silence about the need for support for new moms, but there's even more silence about the advent of the second child and the ensuing struggles for many families.

When we do end up talking about this stuff, many of us talk about mourning the loss of the first child.  There's a grief that many moms experience when they find it hard to mother their first child in the way that they used to, often in the ways that that child is still asking for.  For me, I think I felt that loss bit by bit, more and more, in different ways as time passed.  Initially, I remember not being able to hold him-- this sense of kicking him out of the nest, not being able to meet his every need, always telling him to wait, etc.  We had so much difficulty during that first year of SJL's life that I found myself relishing the days that he was in childcare and then feeling horribly guilty about that.

And then we found our amazing preschool, and he was so, so much happier.  The upside of that is that I started sending him 4 days a week, and then, after that hellacious winter of huge snowstorm after huge snowstorm, I even sent him 5 days a week.  But it was working for us, it truly was, and he never asked to stay home and was always thrilled at school.  He would often get pissed when I came to pick him up and would say that he didn't want to leave!  Did I push him out of the nest too soon?  Should I have kept him more because I could?  Who knows.

Two summers later, I decided to keep them home more often, and, for the first time in a while, I can truly say that I have enjoyed it.  I've enjoyed being with Chickie-- listening to him, answering questions, going on adventures, doing all that shit that I thought only other parents really enjoyed.  I knew I was always supposed to, but I never really did all that much.  I've been thinking about that whole days-drag-years-fly horseshit lately, and it's been ringing truer to my ears these days.  I don't regret NOT loving the time I spent with my kids over the past couple years; I think the pressure to "enjoy every last minute because time flies!" can be really damaging.  Here's the thing-- if you don't love this time, that's OK.  It doesn't make you a bad parent or ungrateful, and it doesn't mean that you don't love your kids or that you don't want to be a mom.  It just is what it is.  You don't have to freaking love every minute or enjoy every minute.  Give me a damn break.

But I enjoyed my time with them this summer.  This morning, we went to see an old friend who's in town.  We spent time outside, played in a sprinkler, had a nice drive back home, talked about stuff we saw out the window, stuff like that.  It felt normal and good and not always a freaking battle.  And right as things get easier, I feel like I lose my kid again and he goes to Kindergarten, and maybe I pushed him out too soon before I HAD to, but that's kinda that.

I tell new parents who are going back to work and sending their kids to daycare for the first time, "Don't worry; you'll always be their mom," and I guess I should remember that.  I'll always be his mom.  But I hope he's still happy in Kindergarten.  I hope the knees of his pants are worn through and ripped from playing on the floor.  I hope he's still running with a pack of kids on the playground (although I'm sorry to see him leave that huge grassy preschool playground...)  I hope he's still intensely curious and eager to learn and absorb information like a sponge.  And I hope he's loved and nurtured.

Here's the boy who started at our beloved preschool in July of 2010:

And here he is, over 2 years later, on his last day at preschool:

Oh, my heart is full of love for this school that loved, nurtured, encouraged, and supported my boy.