Dear Nursery-School Mom,
I used to be in your shoes. I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s true.
You’re kneeling down, a little one wrapped in colorful bandages against your chest, trying to soothe your 3-year-old who’s in tears over earthworms. “They come out of the ground when it rains,” you explain gently, “and sadly, some of them drown.” Your preschooler sniffs and adds, “They also have a smell.”
You both look up as my daughter walks by. She’s now a sixth grader, starring as Ralph Rackstraw in the school play of HMS Pinafore. To you, she must seem like a giant, almost majestic, tossing candy from a float, gliding by like a celebrity. Your child recognizes her, whispering her name in awe as she passes.
You glance at me, and I try to smile warmly, but I worry I might resemble a jack-o’-lantern or a witch, with my weary face and crumbling smile. Instead of a baby, I’m left with two lanky figures and a life that feels like it’s lost some of its softness. If you look too closely, you might see the remnants of my youth drifting away like tumbleweed.
You stand to greet a friend who arrives with her own baby, and you all chat about sippy cups and sleep schedules. There’s laughter about bringing tequila to playgroup, and you’re in no rush to leave—unless your little one spots you through the nursery window, which will lead to tears and turmoil.
I will bend down just enough to kiss my daughter goodbye, her face radiant with youth, thick eyelashes framing her bright eyes. I’ll get into my car alone, buckle up, and drive off to a café, where I’ll spend the morning writing solo. No more lukewarm steamed milk or sharing crumbs of scones with a toddler racing towards the nearest distraction.
Instead, I’ll sit quietly, sipping my coffee, not needing to apologize for the chaos we once created. You’ll whisk your little ones home for a cozy lunch of Annie’s Mac and Cheese (don’t forget the peas!), followed by a leisurely stroll to the nearby farm. You’ll marvel at the daffodils and the buzzing bees, soaking in the sun, holding your child’s small hand. Your son will be mesmerized by the animals, while your baby squeals with delight, arms flailing in excitement.
In those moments, you may find yourself pondering if life will always be this sweet, this slow. You might wonder about the older moms—what do they do? (We enjoy wine from actual glasses while our kids make salad.) Do they miss the sunshine after those endless winter days? Oh, we do. The scent of a baby’s head after a nap, the tender moments when they climb into bed, and the adorable way they burrow into your side while you read together.
One day, you’ll sneak in at night just to bend down and inhale that familiar scent of your child’s soft, sleeping scalp. You’ll become that person—one who bends down for the simple joy of it, unable to get enough of those fleeting moments.
You might not believe this now, but it’s true.
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Summary:
This letter reflects on the transition from being a nursery school mom to a sixth-grader’s mom, capturing the bittersweet moments of motherhood. It explores the contrasting experiences and emotions shared between parents at different stages, emphasizing the beauty of fleeting childhood moments.
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