My 4-year-old still asks me to wipe his butt and I’m supposed to send him to TK next year
I’m sitting on the living room floor folding laundry right now, and there’s this tiny pair of newborn socks tucked between his sweatpants and the new 4T button-down I bought last week for TK picture day. I don’t even know how they got there. I held one up to my thumb just now, and it fits only the tip. That’s how this whole thing feels, honestly—like I’m finding random pieces of the tiny baby he was, and all of a sudden the school is asking for his shot record and his shirt size and what snack he’s allergic to, like he’s already a big kid who just goes off to school.
People keep saying how exciting this is. My mom keeps going “I can’t believe my baby’s a grandma to a schoolkid!” which weirds me out, and my neighbor whose kid is in TK now told me “you’re gonna get so much free time! You’ll love it!” And I want to say, I don’t want that much free time. I got used to him being around. Last week I had a dentist appointment that took two hours, and I came home and the house was too quiet, and I ate half a bag of chips just staring at the wall because I didn’t know what to do with myself. That’s not me being good at this whole “me time” thing people brag about.
A couple weeks ago we went to a 5-year-old’s birthday at the bounce place, drop-off only. I agreed because I thought it’d be good practice, right? Get him used to me leaving. I kissed him goodbye, he didn’t even look up, he was already running toward the big slide. I sat in my car in the parking lot scrolling Instagram for 45 minutes, feeling weirdly proud, and then I got the text. He had an accident. Forgot to ask someone to take him potty. I had to go in, and he was hiding behind the hostess stand with his wet pants crumpled in a Walmart bag, red-faced, and all the other parents who’d stayed for the party were looking. I carried him out to the car, and he fell asleep on the way home, his head heavy on my shoulder, and I kept thinking that’s my kid. He still gets too excited to remember to pee. How is he supposed to go to school for six hours a day?
We went to the TK preview day at the school last month. All the other kids sat at their little tables coloring, holding their crayons right, staying in their chairs. My boy saw a purple crayon all the way at the other end of the table, and instead of asking anyone to pass it, he just climbed right on top of the table and walked over to get it. The teacher laughed and said “oh, he’s got spunk!” but I saw her jot something down on her clipboard, and I wanted to crawl under the tiny kid-sized rug. I kept apologizing after, and she said it’s fine, that’s what TK is for, they’re supposed to learn this stuff there. But what if I’m the mom that sent the wild kid that ruins all the circle time for everyone else? What if I didn’t do enough potty practice, enough zipping practice, enough sitting still practice?
He’s actually the one who’s been excited this whole time. Ever since his cousin showed him her TK backpack last Christmas, he’s been bugging me for one. We went to Target last month, and he picked out this beat-up looking Spider-Man one that’s way too big for him, and he carries it around the house every day, stuffing it full of matchbox cars and a chipped rock he found in the park and one of my old lip balms he stole from my purse. He keeps telling everyone at the grocery store “I’m going to big kid school next year!” So he’s ready, I guess. I’m just not.
Last night I was up until 11pm scrolling those stupid “10 things your kid must know before TK” lists, and my partner came out of the bedroom and turned my phone off, said I was being crazy. He said “He’s 4. They don’t expect him to be ready. That’s the point of TK.” And I know that, logically. I know he’ll learn to zip his coat, he’ll learn to ask for help to wipe when he needs it, he’ll make friends, he’ll have fun. I know I’ll get used to the extra two hours a day to do whatever I want, I’ll probably even get to drink my coffee hot sometimes, which I haven’t done in four years.
But right now, he’s napped out on the couch next to me, his head in my lap, his thumb in his mouth, that tattered bunny blanket he’s had since he was a baby crumpled under his arm. I just got the email from the school this morning, with the first day reminder, and I added it to my calendar, and I had to set three alerts because I’m not scared I’ll forget— that’s not it. I’m scared I’ll remember too much. I’m scared I’ll look up and it’ll be the first day, and I’ll have missed all the silly messy little stuff that only happens when he’s 4, when he’s still my little kid that’s home with me every day.
I yelled at him this morning, remember? Because he poured his whole bowl of Cheerios on the kitchen counter just to see if the milk would run off onto the floor. I huffed and I grabbed the paper towel and I was annoyed, and he just stood there looking at me, all wide-eyed, and I didn’t tell him it was okay until 10 minutes later, after I cleaned it up. What if that’s the last time he does something that silly? What if when he goes to school, he stops doing all those messy little annoying things that I complain about every single day, and I’ll miss them more than anything?
I don’t know. I’m not gonna sit here and say it’s all gonna be fine, because I don’t know that right now. I still have a little less than eight months left, right? I guess I’ll just keep folding the laundry, and keep wiping his butt when he asks, and keep letting him pour cereal on the counter sometimes (as long as he helps clean it up, okay?) and we’ll get there when we get there. The tiny newborn sock is still in my hand. I think I’ll tuck it back into the laundry basket. It can stay there a little longer.
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