first day of preschool

This is the picture that was taken about 15 minutes before the wail.

The wail that reverberated throughout the preschool, across the playground, and across the street to the car where me, my partner, and our nanny sat with squinted eyes, spying through the fence at the sight of our beloved being held by a man in a colorful shirt she had never seen much less than held by. About 5 minutes later we heard notes from a song, and realized the stranger was singing to her. Just enough solace to let ourselves drive away.

This is the picture that was taken about 15 minutes and 30 seconds before my heart broke, before I saw for the first time how small my “big girl” actually was, a frailty I hadn’t observed since she was born. Her little frame so small, the world so big, and with so many strange people and unpredictable experiences in it. Walking away was like handing the light of my life over to an ocean. She wailed, and my body froze, just wanting to hold her close.

This is the day I learned that first-day-of-preschool pictures are a farce. Like so much of the picture of motherhood. This is the day that the tyranny of leaving your beloved at the mercy of outside forces begins. This is the day that it all begins again, new life emerging from my body, through unfathomable pain, but this time, we don’t get to hold her.

Some time ago, I was talking with friends about how becoming a mother is its own death and rebirth, and one of them said, without skipping a beat, “and it just keeps happening.” I dismissed that comment, on the inside, as it was too much to take in. I now know what she meant.

I’m not liking it at all.

Yet somehow, here we are. Day 4. Doing the thing. Finding our way together – again – in this new era of separateness, where her body gets to feel the oddness of other bodies, where new teachers hold her hand while she cries, where she doesn’t eat much of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but somehow emerges from the front door with scribbled drawings and a smile.

And yes, it’s getting easier for her – and us – day by day. We still spy from the neighboring road every day as part of our drop-off routine. We peer through the leaves to see her crying just a little less, holding a teacher’s hand and pointing to a flower just a little more. Shuffling – one step, two step, three steps – toward the line for morning circle.

I want to jump out and save her in every moment. I want to hop that damn chain link fence and come running like a mama wolf to scoop my baby up in my arms.

And it’s not my job today. All the ancestors have been called. (They are here, I am thankful.) The teachers are kind. And there is some other timeless resilience and capacity emerging. Little things grow big. They reach out tendrils into a vast question mark, and find their way toward the sun. New neural networks are slowly emerging through her little body – and mine.