There has never been a child more eager to start kindergarten than my youngest, Lily. It was almost as if she believed that school was this grand secret she was finally going to uncover. Once she learned the secret, she would become what every 5-year-old dreams of being…GROWN UP.
I didn’t shed a tear as she strolled to the bus, hand-in-hand with her brother. I managed to hold it together as the bus pulled away, her little face pressed against the window, beaming and waving. My husband and I walked back up the hill, enveloped in an unusual silence, alone together for the first time in what felt like years. We exchanged glances, wondering what came next. What do I do now, after dedicating six years to being a stay-at-home mom?
Of course, I’ve had moments alone before—Lily had attended preschool—but that day felt distinct. Life had shifted. It was like a tiny thread had been severed between us, a bond I hadn’t realized was there until that moment.
I’ve noticed that during significant milestones in our children’s lives, time slows down. Every detail sharpens, colors become more vivid, and emotions intensify. I’ll remember that first afternoon alone in my house forever. Initially, I was thrilled: seven hours and twenty-six minutes of freedom!
I could finally catch up on chores, organize my life, exercise whenever I wanted, prepare dinner, and even finish writing that book I’d put off. But then, I found myself staring at her abandoned toys, feeling a sense of nostalgia rather than annoyance. Folding her clothes, no longer tiny, pressed down on my heart like a weight.
In those moments of solitude, I would forget I was alone, only to be jolted by the realization: where is she? Oh. My heart would sink. Making lunch and dining in silence, devoid of chatter or complaints about apple slices. What is she doing right now? Is she scared? Happy? Does she have a friend? Is she eating anything for lunch?
Sitting in the stillness of the afternoon, a cruel voice whispered, “An important part of your job is done.” And it is. A crucial chapter of my role as a mother has closed. I never imagined that while grappling with the chaos of the terrible twos and threes, I would yearn for those days so quickly. All those videos I recorded of my little ones now feel too painful to watch. I can’t bear to hear her tiny voice calling cantaloupe “camel milk” — it breaks something inside me. No one warned me that the hardest part of motherhood isn’t surviving the trenches, but rather the climb out and the bittersweet act of letting go.
When Lily returned from her first day, her eyes sparkled with the pride of someone who had just discovered a secret. Yet, there was a hint of recognition in her gaze, as if to say, “I know the secret now, but I still need my mom.” She rushed into my arms as if we hadn’t seen each other in ages. In that moment, she felt so small to me. Her dirty face was still that of the little girl I had wiped and kissed every day. All I wanted was to hold her close and freeze time.
And yes, I cried. Because I was overjoyed she was home, and also because I realized I still need her too.
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Summary:
This heartfelt narrative reflects on a mother’s emotional journey as her youngest child embarks on the significant milestone of starting kindergarten. The author experiences a mix of nostalgia, pride, and sadness as she grapples with the bittersweet nature of growing up and the changes in their relationship.