I’m not ready to send my 4 year old to TK next year, okay?
I’m sitting cross-legged on my living room floor right now, half of a laundry pile still splayed out around me, just fished out a pair of those fuzzy pink newborn socks I swore I threw out after her first birthday. They still have that lopsided little strawberry stitched on the toe she used to gum until it was frayed. My phone’s been buzzing all week with reminders that registration closes this Friday, and I can’t make myself click the submit button on the form. I’ve had it open for three days.
Everyone says I’m being silly. My mom says it’s just half-day TK, it’s just playtime and snack time, it’s not like sending her off to college. My sister reminds me I sent her to a home daycare two days a week when I had client deadlines back when she was two, so what’s the big difference? Even my husband just shrugs and says “she’s gonna love it, you’ll get three hours a day to pee alone, what’s the problem?”
And okay, fine, they’re half right. Some days I do crave three hours to pee alone. Last week she made me play Unicorn Restaurant for 47 minutes straight, and I hid in the bathroom scrolling grocery delivery apps for ten minutes just to get five minutes of not having to pretend that plastic broccoli is a “unicorn special”. Yesterday she poured an entire sippy cup of apple juice into the couch cushions just to see what would happen, and I yelled a little, slammed the sponge down, and thought wouldn’t it be nice to not have juice stains on my couch before 8 a.m.?
But that’s the weird contradiction no one talks about, right? The part where you’re annoyed half the day and also don’t want any of it to change. I yelled about the apple juice, but five minutes later I was sitting next to her on the floor mopping it up and she was telling me a story about how the juice was magic that would grow a juice tree in the couch, and I wanted to tuck that moment away in my pocket, not just throw the sponge away.
We went to the open house at the elementary school two weeks ago, and I already feel weird about it. We walked up the sidewalk, and she kept stopping to blow every dandelion growing through the cracks, and I kept hurrying her because we were a little late, and then I stopped and thought no one’s gonna stop and wait for her to blow all the dandelions when she’s here alone. The classroom was bright and loud, full of lopsided little kid art taped to the walls, and the teacher knelt down and asked her what her name was, and she squeezed my hand so hard her little nails left half-moon marks on my palm and hid all the way behind my leg. The teacher laughed and said “she’ll come out of her shell soon, don’t worry” and I just wanted to grab her hand and walk right back out to the ice cream shop down the street, skip the whole open house.
I know all the things I’m supposed to know. She’s social, she loves coloring, she makes friends with every stray dog and random kid at the park, she’ll be fine. She can go to the bathroom by herself, she can put her own shoes on (most of the time, anyway, even if she puts them on the wrong feet). But I still carry an extra pair of underwear in my purse everywhere we go, just in case. Last month she had an accident at the grocery store, and she cried so hard because she thought everyone in the produce aisle was staring at her, and I wrapped her in my oversized hoodie and carried her out to the car, got her new panties from the gas station on the way home. What if she has an accident at TK and I’m not there to wrap her up and tell her it’s okay, no one cares? I know the teachers are used to it, but they’re not me. That’s all. They’re just not me.
I work from home, so our days have always been this loose, messy rhythm. We wake up when we wake up, no alarm. If it’s sunny we go to the park for two hours, if it’s rainy we bake half-burnt chocolate chip cookies and watch three episodes of Bluey. If she’s tired we nap on the couch together in the middle of the day. Next year, we’ll have to set an alarm for 6:30 a.m. I’ll have to pack a lunch the night before, rush her out the door by 7:45, pick her up at 12:30. The whole shape of my days is gonna change, and I didn’t get a say in when that happens, really. The cutoff’s September 1, her birthday’s October 2, so TK’s the only option. It’s not like I chose this timeline.
Last night we laid on the carpet in her room after we read bedtime stories, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling, and she told me “when I go to school, I’ll bring you the shiniest rock from the playground, just for you”. And I started crying, right there on the carpet, and she thought I was sad because I wanted the rock, so she patted my head and said “it’s okay mom, I’ll find the very best one”. I couldn’t even explain to her why I was crying. I was crying because I don’t need a shiny rock. I just need a few more months of her being my little sidekick, of us having nowhere to be and nothing to do that isn’t what we want to do.
The registration form’s still open on my phone, right next to me on the floor. I know I have to submit it. I know this is how it’s supposed to go. Kids grow up, they go to school, you get your days back, all that. I know she’ll come home every day with glitter on her shirt and a new song stuck in her head and that will be nice, too. But I’m still sitting here, staring at the screen, the newborn sock tucked in my pocket instead of in the trash. My sister texted me ten minutes ago saying “stop being dramatic and just register the kid”. She’s probably right.
I just need another minute, that’s all. Another minute of this messy, juice-stained, dandelion-blowing, unicorn-restaurant life before it changes. No one ever says it’s okay to need that minute, right? They just say it’s time, so be ready. I’m not ready. And that’s okay, I think. For now, anyway.
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