As I fasten your tiny shoes, I can hear your sweet voice, “Mommy, come with me? Mommy, no leave?” Your little hand reaches for mine, and we adjust your bright red backpack together. I offer a warm smile, but inside, my heart feels heavy. In the preschool parking lot, I see tears beginning to form in your eyes. Your little feet shuffle toward the classroom, gripping my finger tightly.
Why does something that’s meant to be good feel so difficult?
On that first day of preschool, you reached out, crying for me. Tears rolled down your flushed cheeks. I kissed you goodbye and walked toward the car, leaving behind the sound of your cries. It shattered me. I wish you could understand, but at just 2 years old, you simply can’t.
While you’ve likely settled in with your new friends and stopped crying, I’m still here, feeling the ache of separation. So, as I sit in the car, I’m writing you this letter. One day, when you’re older and can truly comprehend, I want to share something important about that preschool drop-off.
My dear child, when you’re able to read this, those drop-offs will be mere memories, likely forgotten. You won’t recall the tears, the anxious looks, or how your teacher held you close while I hurried away, trying to hold back my own tears. You won’t remember the worries on my face or the way your cheeks turned red. Though you won’t remember, I promise you, I will.
You’ll not know how much thought your father and I put into selecting the right school—how we spent months deliberating over which environment would nurture you and help you grow. It took us half a year to gather the courage to enroll you after visiting twelve, yes twelve, different schools. We finally chose a cozy little place that felt just right, filled with colorful art and kind teachers who you could trust. You won’t recall the countless sleepless nights I spent worrying about this decision, but your parents will never forget.
You won’t remember how I felt guilty in the days that followed, cleaning the house and doing the dishes, all while feeling like I’d let you down. By 10 a.m., I was convinced that your confidence in me had diminished. While you were likely playing happily, I was on the phone with Ms. Sarah, eager to hear about your day, relieved to learn you were laughing and playing during circle time. You won’t recall these details, but sweet child, I will always remember.
Maybe you’ll read this at seven, rolling your eyes at how overly emotional I am. Perhaps you’ll be a teenager, embarrassed by this display of sentimentality. Or possibly, I like to imagine, you’ll be packing your belongings into a car, ready for your next adventure, with a college sticker on the back. As you drive away, you might find this letter tucked away in the passenger seat.
There will come a day when I’ll be the one at drop-off, and maybe I’ll manage a brave smile, or maybe I’ll have tears streaming down my face. Regardless, it will be your turn to rush back to the car, leaving me with my emotions in the rearview. At that moment, you’ll be looking forward to a new journey, not glancing back.
You won’t remember the little details—the lunchboxes, the tiny socks, or how I woke up early to bake muffins for you. You won’t recall that I parked the car just to write this letter while I wept. You won’t realize the whirlwind of pride, joy, and sadness that fills a parent’s heart when they witness their child stepping into independence.
You may not understand that feeling, but I certainly will.
If you’re interested in learning more about the journey of parenthood, including the options available for starting a family, visit our other blog post here. And for anyone looking into at-home insemination options, Make A Mom is an authority on the subject. For further insights into pregnancy-related topics, Medline Plus is an excellent resource.
In summary, as you grow and embark on new adventures, remember that while those early moments may fade from your memory, the love and support behind them will always remain in my heart.