I’m Not Ready to Send My 4-Year-Old to TK Next Year, and I’m Not Trying to Be Dramatic About It
I’m sitting on my laundry room floor right now, folding hoodies that already don’t fit her, and I just found her tiny navy rain boot tucked behind the detergent. The unicorn sticker I put on the toe last month is peeling at the corner, chewed a little because she nibbled it when she got nervous before library story time, when the librarian asked her to come up and show everyone her rock collection. It’s the little things like this sticker, the chewed corner, the permanent mud stain on the side that I can’t stop thinking about, because TK starts next fall, and I still haven’t processed that this little boot is gonna go in a cubby at school instead of by our front door.
Everyone keeps telling me she’s ready. And okay, fine, she is. She can count to 17, she can put on her own coat (zipper still needs help, but that’s fine), she pees on the potty all by herself and only rarely forgets to flush when she’s in a hurry to get back to digging for worms in the backyard. Last week at the playground, she ran off to play with a group of bigger kids and didn’t look back for 45 minutes. So I get it. Everyone’s right. She’s ready. I’m not.
Last week another mom asked me if I’d registered yet, at the cookie sale after the preschool Thanksgiving program. I lied and said yeah, all done, because I didn’t want to have the conversation where she pats my arm and says it’s good for them, you’ll get a break, you deserve it. The thing is, she’s right about the break. I work from home at that dinky little desk in the corner of our living room, and half my Zoom calls have my kid hiding under the table chewing on my charging cord or climbing into my lap mid-presentation to show me a dead stink bug she found. Some days I scream into my coffee after a call ends because I got nothing done, and I complain to my sister that I can’t wait until I have three whole uninterrupted hours a day to just… work. Or pee alone. Pee alone sounds amazing, honestly. But the second I say that out loud, I remember that time a couple weeks ago I tripped over her because she was braiding my shoelaces together under my desk during a call, and she laughed so hard she snort-laughed, and I couldn’t stop laughing either, even though my whole team could hear us. Who’s gonna make me trip over my own shoelaces and snort-laugh when she’s at school? That’s the stupid little thing no one talks about.
I went to the TK orientation back in October. All the parents were milling around the classroom, eating the little pre-packaged cookies the PTA put out, and the principal was going on about play-based learning and social-emotional growth, and all I could stare at was the line of tiny little cubbies, each with a blank paper where the names would go. I kept thinking, what if she can’t find hers? She can’t read her full name yet, just the big M I draw next to it on her lunch box. What if she’s too shy to raise her hand and ask a teacher for help? What if she has to poop and she’s embarrassed, and she holds it all day, and she has an accident in her new pants, and no one wipes her bottom the way she likes it, because she hates when the toilet paper is too cold straight out of the dispenser? That’s a stupid thing to worry about, I know. But it’s my stupid worry.
Her birthday is the day before Thanksgiving, so she’s one of the youngest kids in her cohort. For three months I went back and forth on whether to hold her back another year. I polled my mom group, I asked her pediatrician, I drove my husband crazy talking about it over dinner every night. The pediatrician said she’s right on track developmentally, that she’d probably be bored doing another year of the same preschool stuff. The other moms were split half and half. Half said redshirt, she’ll be the leader when she’s older, half said send her, she’ll keep up. I finally just took the spot we got through the district lottery, because I was tired of thinking about it. I don’t know if it’s the right choice. I probably won’t know for another five years, if ever. That’s just how parenting is, right? You just guess and hope you don’t mess it up too bad.
I did finally register, by the way. Last Sunday, when my husband took her to the park, I sat down at my laptop and filled out all the forms. I uploaded her birth certificate, her shot records, I paid the $25 activity fee. When I hit the submit button, my hands were a little shaky. I closed the laptop and walked out to the kitchen, and I just stood there for a minute, because I suddenly realized that that’s it. The thing I’ve been putting off is done. Next fall is happening.
I don’t want this to sound like I’m one of those moms that’s clinging too hard, or that I don’t want her to grow up. I do want her to grow up. I want her to make friends, and learn to paint a picture that doesn’t just look like a brown blob, and come home singing silly songs I’ve never heard. I know she’s gonna love it. I know she’s gonna run into that classroom and forget to wave goodbye to me half the time. That’s what I want, isn’t it? For her to be brave and happy and independent.
Right now, she’s on the kitchen floor behind me, eating Goldfish crackers out of the bag and watching Bluey. Her socks are inside out, like they always are, and there’s a smudge of chocolate from the after-nap cookie on her left cheek. She just called out “mom! Look at Bluey’s dad!” and I said “that’s cool, baby” and I didn’t even look up, because I’m writing this. I feel a little guilty about that, honestly. I’m already missing the days when all my attention is supposed to be on her, and I’m not even paying attention now.
I know everything’s gonna be fine. She’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. I’ll get my three hours a day to work, and pee alone, and go to the grocery store without a kid begging for lollipops by the checkout. It’s just… I still don’t want to go. I still want to keep my chewed sticker rain boot, and my shoelace-braiding little girl under my desk, and my late-night ice-cold feet shoved against my calf when she crawls into bed, just a little longer. That’s all.
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