Big G starts kindergarten tomorrow.
On Labor Day he turns six.
There should be a limit to how many milestones a child can reach in one week. Wait, scratch that. I think the limit should be one milestone per month.
Make it so.
(That’s probably not going to work out so well come driver’s license time, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.)
I feel pretty good about the kindergarten thing. It’s cool. Big G has gone to preschool for over two years, so the whole school thing isn’t a big deal for us.
Still, there’s that mama bear inside of me that whispers, “Elementary school kids are mean. They’ll make fun of your baby. He could become insecure and unhappy. And what if he has a potty accident at school? They’ll never let him live that down. School is going to be terrible. How can you send him to a place like that? It will crush his spirit and suck away his joy!”
What? Okay, fine. There might be a little bit of projecting going on. Shut up. Y’all aren’t my therapists.
I know, I know. He’ll be great. He’ll make friends, he’ll learn, he’ll have fun. But I worry. I’m a mom—it’s my job.
Tomorrow morning I’ll wake up early. I think I’ll make pancakes in shapes, because it’s a special day, and special days call for pancakes shaped like stars and hearts. I’ll smile and laugh and be excited, and I’ll take pictures of him on the front porch before we walk to school with our friends. When we get there I’ll take pictures of him in front of the school, because that’s what parents do on the first day of school.
I won’t cry on the way home.
Okay, fine. I might get a little weepy. If you see me walking home, do me a solid and pretend the sun is in my eyes.