This is my second time writing this post. On the Sunday that Pete left for his camping trip I was in fairly good spirits after successfully single-moming it (we all know how long that lasted) and after both kiddies were tucked in tight I popped open the ‘ol laptop for some much needed blogging. Perhaps it was the fact that I was multi-tasking by carrying on a textversation with my best pal Molly or perhaps my brain was tainted by the sub-par Spaten Oktoberfest I was drinking, but whatever the case, I didn’t pay attention to the fact that my post window had been open all day and I was actually no longer logged in to WordPress. So I typed and typed and typed some more and at the end of what I felt was a pretty damn good post I hit save draft so I could proofread it. Suddenly I was staring at the login screen and a wave of panic overtook me. I hit back, I refreshed, I checked the history, I did anything I could think of to get back to my post screen but alas, it was gone. At this point it was 10 PM, my bedtime, but my stubborn unwillingness to accept that my post really was never to be seen again lead me on an hour long troubleshooting hunt to try and recover it. By the time I was knee deep in tech talk on some geek forum trying to figure out how to extract gzip files so I could recover cached pages it was 11 PM, my eyes were glazing over and I finally gave up. So here I am about two weeks later ready to give it another go. My hope is that it has been long enough that I won’t be trying to desperately remember how it went the first time around and I can simply start from scratch…
Preschool! (first day snappies)
Shortly before Crosby was born, we had begun discussing Norah’s foray into the world of non-familial childcare. For the first two years of her life, if she wasn’t with us she was with Grandma and Grams—she spent not a single day at daycare nor a single night with a babysitter—and for this we are beyond grateful. Being able to leave our baby girl for anything from a night out to a half-week trip and feel 100% at ease knowing that she was in capable and trusted hands is a gift we will never take for granted. Plus daycare is obscenely expensive and babysitters are scary. I should know. I was one. Now that I’m a parent, I’m shocked as shit that I was trusted to care for a one year old when I was 14. Sure I was a responsible kid with a good head on my shoulders, but one year olds are the real deal—you need to know a little something about babies and all the no-no’s that accompany them if you’re going to look after one, and I’m fairly certain that most 14 year olds don’t know nearly enough. Nothing terrible ever befell any of my charges, but I attribute that to good luck not mad babysitting skills. Call me paranoid but I’m not likely to feel okay about teenage childcare until my kiddies are at least four or five years old. Okay, off track, point being! We felt Norah was ready to get used to being away from us, and possibly most importantly, to get socialized.
We asked a good friend who has logged many years in the education system to recommend a preschool and she pointed us toward the Graham Presbyterian Church Playschool. Our lack of affiliation with any church and slight aversion to organized religion in general left us feeling a tad hesitant about pursuing this option, but after some research and conversations with more experienced parents we learned that church preschools were the way to go in these parts, unless of course you want to take your kid to some place called “Wade’s.” (Yes, that’s a real and possibly totally great childcare place in Mebane, but for some reason the name Wade just doesn’t elicit warm fuzzy feelings of trust. Sorry to anyone named Wade reading this post.) GPC Playschool was recommended and super affordable AND there was a waiting list for the two year old class so of course I wanted it even more. We got our names on the list and crossed our fingers. Lucky for us, our friend that reco’d the school was also good friends with the school’s director so when a spot opened up we were bumped to the top. Connections baby!
We signed Norah up for two days a week–Tuesday and Thursday 9-12–and on September 4th we three (Crosby stayed at home with Grandma) headed to Graham for the first day. Norah was ridiculously excited, or as she liked to say “besided” and couldn’t stop talking about preschool. Everything was fine and dandy until the moment when she realized that mommy and daddy weren’t staying with her all day. Commence sobbing breakdown and it took everything I had in me to kiss her good-bye and walk away. In the parking lot I started to tear up myself and Pete did a great job of making me feel better, but man that shit was hard.
I drove off to work and spent the next three hours neurotically watching the clock in anticipation of getting a call from my mom (who was picking her up) with a report on her first day. This may come as a shock to you, but I’m kind of a control freak, and after two years of being able to know exactly what Norah was doing at any moment, I was experiencing a significant amount of anxiety over having no clue about her status for an entire morning. Of course I made it through, as did she, and the report on day one was as expected in terms of her temperament: some periodic crying when she remembered we weren’t there, but also some good times playing. Perhaps the most discouraging thing was that she had a couple accidents. Though I completely understand how the stress of this new experience could cause a setback in her potty training, being the crazy, type A perfectionist that I am and having so much pride over how well she’d been doing with it at home, I couldn’t help but feel disappointed and sad, especially since I know accidents upset her. But I of course accepted this as just part of the process and prepared myself for a nice long period of adjustment.
On Day two she knew exactly what was going to happen when we took her to preschool and “besided” turned into “how the hell could you do this to me you horrible people?!” (or whatever the two year old version of that is). And so it went. Those first several weeks were riddled with tearful drop offs and days where she would wake up in the morning crying out “I don’t want to go to preschool.” But the report from her teachers was generally good in that she’d calm down and play and only occasionally get weepy. Now here we are a little more than six weeks in and it seems that she’s finally ready to admit that preschool isn’t some terrible punishment that we’re forcing her to endure but might actually be a good thing. I do believe the preschool fears are over and that she’s even beginning to look forward to it. I mean, days filled with piles of toys, delicious snacks, playground time, super fun crafts and singalongs? Enjoy it while it lasts kid! Before you know it life will start throwing a little thing at you called responsibility. Dun dun dun.
Elderland out. XO.