I can’t help but think that my 5-year-old, Emma, lies in bed every morning scheming ways to make preschool drop-off as difficult as possible for me. Perhaps she considers, “Should I go for dramatic clinging or indifferent nonchalance today? Oh, I know! I’ll just tell the teachers that my mom had the smelliest fart during our TV time last night while she’s standing right there.” There must be some cunning strategy behind her antics, making the experience painfully challenging most days.
For the past two and a half years, Emma has attended the same preschool three days a week with the same teachers. She knows the routine well, yet every day brings a new surprise. No matter how hard I try, it’s rarely enjoyable. It’s as if she’s determined to keep me guessing about her feelings for me, reminiscent of the mind games my high school boyfriend played. Does she adore me so much that she can’t stand being apart, or is she indifferent to my presence? It’s impossible to tell!
Monday mornings are particularly brutal. Trust me, I’m a veteran at drop-offs. I never look back, I’m firm yet gentle, and I ensure I don’t appear sad. “I won’t cry today!” she declares confidently during our car ride.
“Fantastic!” I respond, though I find it hard to believe after hearing the same promise for two hundred Monday mornings. “Neither of us will cry because we know we’ll see each other soon, and we’ll have lots of fun,” I add, attempting to elevate mundane chores like cleaning toilets and grocery shopping to an exciting level.
I can sense when things are about to go south as her expression crumbles when I prepare to leave. It’s as if she believes that if she cries hard enough, I’ll change my mind. “But you love school!” I urge while she latches onto my leg like an octopus. Despite my best efforts to maintain composure, when she sheds real tears and says, “But I’ll miss you,” I am tempted to scoop her up and flee. But her kind teacher gently pries her away from me, and with a heavy heart, I watch her return to the classroom as I close the door. The pain never really lessens.
Yet, I continue to take her back to preschool because I believe it’s essential for her development. Plus, I need my own time to recharge.
I now refer to Wednesdays as Bribery Rejuvenation Day. “I definitely won’t cry if you bring me chocolate chip cookies after school,” she tells me.
“Am I really having to bribe you now?” I respond, pondering how long she’s been masterminding this whole drop-off situation.
“I think it’ll work!” she insists. And yes, I’ll admit it—I sometimes do bring her baked goodies. Judge me all you want, but I’d do anything to avoid the heartbreak of a Monday drop-off.
By Friday, she barely acknowledges my presence. She walks into the classroom, engrossed in her art project, as if I no longer exist. She clearly has more important matters to attend to, and I’m left thinking, “Can I at least get a high-five? A nod? Some acknowledgment for teaching you to talk and wipe yourself?” This is fantastic—thank you so much. I spent nine months avoiding alcohol and deli meats for this? While I’m relieved she’s not crying, a little recognition would be nice. Talk about mixed signals!
Often, I try to process these drop-off feelings with her at home, but I’m not sure either of us gains much from it. She believes I should bribe her more often, while I think she should stop manipulating my emotions like a skilled musician. I know I’m probably handling this all wrong, but for now, I’ll keep bribing her.
Next year, she’ll be taking the bus to kindergarten. For sure.
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Summary:
Navigating the complexities of preschool drop-off is a daily struggle for many parents. The unpredictable emotional responses from children can turn what should be a simple goodbye into a dramatic experience. Understanding the importance of preschool while balancing the need for personal time can lead to creative solutions, such as bribery. As children grow, these experiences evolve, bringing both challenges and rewards.