Kindergarten and a Mother's Angst

To my sweet, sweet girl,



Yesterday was your first day of kindergarten and as much as I wanted to click my heels and shout, "I'M FREE", I found myself emotionally tipsy instead. I remember the day that you were born and how the cord was wrapped around your neck a couple of times. You came out quiet, fragile and perfect but you didn't stay mute for long. You have always been a child that knows exactly what she wants and I admire your ability to be singularly focused on your goal. It doesn't matter that this trait of yours causes me hours of grief. Secretly, the girlfriend part of me is cheering you on. You will never be anyone's doormat.

You have grown into this complicated creature who can bellow, "You're a horrible mother" in the middle of a Starbucks on Mother's Day and just as easily take my face in your hands and cover me in wet little kisses. When you laugh, it really does sound like music and there is nothing better than the goofy, wrinkly-nosed, front teeth exposed smile you have when you discover the absurd.

For weeks now, we have been marking how many days Mummy had left to give her spleen, kidney and right arm to the daycare center you've called home for the past two years. Then, your last day came and your favourite teacher picked you up, gave you a hug and said he'd miss you. He was misty-eyed. He walked us out to the car and waved at you until he was nothing but a speck in the rearview mirror. I sobbed at the next red light.

And then came the big day. You wanted your hair in ponies but not braids because you are not able to twirl your hair when it is in braids. I get it baby. Mummy does that, too. It's how the women in our tribe concentrate. Unfortunately, this means you will not play poker well but who cares? At least I will always know when you've got something on your mind.

You were brushing your teeth and I noticed that you had grown even more over the summer. You no longer needed the stool to reach the sink and when you looked at me in the mirror, I caught a quick glimpse of you as a teenager. You raised your eyebrows in this completely adult way and in that moment, I was reminded that I have precious little time left with my baby bug. All too soon, you will sprout a pre-adolescent brain and the landscape of our relationship will shift for fifteen years.

So, I snapped a few pictures and took you to school. You were beside yourself with excitement. You organized all of your supplies in your desk (that's my girl) and promptly got to work putting a puzzle together. Then you broke my heart.

"Mama?" (said in a stage whisper)

"Yes, baby."

"You have to leave, now. I have to go to work."

And with that, you kissed me good bye, bent your head over the puzzle and promptly forgot I existed. I managed to make it to my car before sobbing again.

I'm so proud of you, Liv. Keep swimming upstream.

Love,
Mummy