The First Day of Kindergarten

Many a mommy blogger has written on the subject of sending the fruit of your loins off to Kindergarten.  There are a lot of tear-inducing posts out there.  Some really good ones.  Essays that meander from the first moment that wet, wriggling, little creature angrily arrived to the first teetering steps, from spaghetti-smeared faces and unsanctioned crayon murals to the first solo swim across the pool or unsteady ride on the bike.  Through the Years by Kenny Rogers plays in our heads as we name the memories, sweet and funny and terrible.  I get it.  And part of me wants to write that blog post.

But I'm not going to.

I'm going to be honest and tell you I'm excited.  Yes, of course I feel a tiny pang of something that feels like sad. But I choose to shift my emotions away from that.  See, I don't want her to stay little.  Is it crazy to say that??  I've loved every age for different reasons, and yes, they go fast.  And no, we can't go back.  There are things I loved about high school, college, dating my husband, kid-free marriage and her babyhood and toddler years.  But I don't long for those days.  We're here now.  Let's be in NOW, now.  

Five only happens once.  This is cool.  It's exciting!  New friends and skills and challenges.  New schedule and activities.  Things will go wrong and we'll figure them out.  All that we've poured into her - the love, the guidance, the limits, the mistakes, the love, the love, the love...it was for this.  Not just this.  But this, for sure.  Not so I could cling to her last whispers of littleness, longing for her to need me.  Not so I could cry over losing what once was.  Rather, so she could walk through the doors of that school knowing she can do it.  Here are my hopes and dreams for her for this year:

That she knows we believe in her.  That she'll experience success in little and big ways.  That she'll mess up, and survive.  That she'll fall down and get back up.  That she'll overcome something difficult through persistence.  That someone will steal her juice box and she'll take it right back.  That she'll sit next to the weird kid to be kind.  That she'll begin to discover her gifting and talents.  That she'll ask good questions and think of creative answers.  That she will enjoy most days.  That she'll make friends and receive the care and guidance of special adults we'll think of with appreciation years from now.  That she will win something.  That she will fail at something and be ok with it but try harder next time.  

I've thought about this transition many times.  And I've made many decisions with it in mind.  I know it won't all go smoothly.  But I think we're ready.  

Yes, I miss her baby smell and I tear up when I watch old videos and hear how high and tiny her voice was.  I'm not a robot, People.  But I choose to focus on how special and cool and exciting THIS time right now is.  We'll never have her first day of Kindergarten again.  We made it.  We did it.  We got this far together.  This kid has the potential, as they all do, to change life as we know it.  She might cure the cancer that made the last year of our lives really hard.  Or forge peace in Iraq.  Or lead the next revolution.  I want her to look over her shoulder the day after tomorrow for one last glance before she goes through those doors to take on the world.  And I want her to see me standing there not tearing up, worrying and fretting, but instead bursting with pride, cheering her on, full of confidence and the highest of hopes.  The man next to me, on the other hand, the one I'm married to, will require Kleenex, I'm sure.