I Keep Hiding TK Enrollment Flyers From Myself
I found the crumpled TK flyer at the bottom of the laundry basket this morning, tucked under a pile of Milo’s stained dinosaur socks and my old workout leggings that haven’t fit since 2020. I recognized it immediately, the bright blue border and cartoon kids holding hands that look way too happy, and I just shoved it back under the socks before closing the basket lid. Like if I don’t see it, it’s not real. That sounds stupid, I know. But right now stupid is working better than any of the reasonable stuff people keep telling me.
Milo’s four, turning five in October, so TK next fall is non-negotiable, I guess. It’s half day, it’s free, it’s 10 minutes from our house, walking distance even. All the boxes check. For the last year I’ve complained nonstop about how I never get five minutes to myself without someone tugging my shirt and asking for a goldfish cracker or help opening a juice box. I’ve daydreamed about sitting at the coffee shop down the street, drinking a latte while it’s still hot, not having to cut up anyone’s pancakes, actually finishing a single work email without three interruptions. Now that the date’s actually staring me in the face? I don’t want that five minutes anymore. That’s the messy part no one warns you about, right? Wanting two opposite things at the same time, so hard you can barely breathe some days.
I went to the parent orientation last month, dragged myself there after a morning of potty training accidents that left me mopping the bathroom floor twice. All the other parents showed up with notebooks and questions about literacy curricula and after-school art programs. I stood by the drinking fountain by the classroom and pretended to answer a text so I wouldn’t have to join the group conversation. The classroom had these tiny little chairs, the kind that look like they’re made for dollhouses, and I kept staring at them thinking there’s no way my kid fits in one of those. He still can’t pull his own pants up all the way after he pees. Half the time he yells for me from the bathroom to come wipe, even though he swears he’s a fully independent big kid now. What if he forgets to ask for help at school? What if he sits there in wet underwear all morning because he’s too shy to flag down the teacher? I couldn’t shake that thought the whole hour I was there.
I ran into my neighbor Kim last week, her son’s in TK this year, and she asked if I was getting ready for enrollment. I said yeah, just taking care of the paperwork, and she said it’s the best thing, he learned to write his whole name in three months, and he has three best friends now. All I could do was nod and smile. I wanted to ask all the stupid, embarrassing questions, but I couldn’t get them out. Like does he still cry when you drop him off? Does he ever think you’re not coming back? Do you drive home crying in the car the first week, even though you know it’s silly? I didn’t ask. People don’t ask that stuff out loud, right? You just smile and agree that it’s such an exciting milestone.
Last night we were sitting on the living room floor playing playdough, the sticky cheap kind that gets crumbled into the carpet and I’ll be vacuuming it up until next Christmas. He rolled this lumpy ball and stuck a Cheerio on top of it, and said “It’s a birthday cake for when I go to big kid school.” Before I could even think about it, my eyes were watering. I turned around like I was looking for a plastic knife to cut it and blew my nose on my sleeve, and he asked why I was crying, and I said “Allergies, buddy, the pollen’s bad today.” I didn’t tell him I was crying because suddenly that lumpy playdough cake felt like a little goodbye to the boy who still sleeps with that chewed-up blue rabbit that only smells right if I sleep with it under my pillow for a week when he leaves it at grandma’s.
I used to make fun of my older sister when she cried dropping her oldest off kindergarten. I was 22, single, no kids, and I thought she was being ridiculous. It’s just school, I said. They’ll be fine. Now I texted her last week at 2 a.m. saying I’m an idiot, I’m so sorry I said that. She texted back a meme of a cat crying into a coffee mug and said “welcome to the club, dummy.” That’s the only real advice I’ve gotten so far.
The enrollment forms have been sitting on my kitchen counter for two weeks, under a stack of pizza flyers and a half-eaten granola bar that went stale last week. Every time I go to make coffee I move them to the other side of the counter, but I don’t open the envelope. I know I have to fill them out soon, the deadline’s at the end of the month. I know I’m being ridiculous. It’s not like he’s going off to college. It’s two and a half hours a day. He’ll be home by noon, covered in glue and glitter, telling me all about the kid who brought rainbow cookies for snack time. I know all that.
Yesterday we walked to the park, and he let go of my hand half way there to run after a squirrel. I stood there on the sidewalk watching him, his little windbreaker flapping in the wind, and for a second my throat got tight again. He turned around after a minute and yelled “Mom! Watch me climb the tree!” and waved, and I waved back. I know this is how it’s supposed to go. I know he’s ready. I just don’t know if I am. I still haven’t pulled that flyer out from under the socks. I’ll get to it tomorrow, probably. Maybe.
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