I don't know that I even want to continue writing in this old space. I feel I've outgrown it. But for the sake of not having to create a whole new blog, I just need to dump these words somewhere before my head (or heart) explodes.
My daughter starts school tomorrow. Kinder. And I'm not looking forward to it at all.
Yes there is that part of me (that proud part) as her mother that is excited for all she'll continue to learn and all the friends she'll hopefully make, and how (I pray) she'll love her teacher. But outside of that, I'm a mess. For three weeks, I've been a snotty, swollen eyed, sore throat from wailing out into my pillow, mess. The crying fits bring with them a migraine in the morning. And I wish I wasn't this way. But I've always felt things so strongly, so deeply, and this is no exception. In fact, there's been no exception quite like this.
The realization that today was the last day I had my daughter home, after being so very fortunate to have had her with me these last five and a half years, has been crushing. I can't explain how absolutely devastating and heartbreaking it's been recently, as we inched closer to this day. I've never cried so much, and that's saying something, because, again, when you feel EVERYTHING, everything either makes you so happy you cry, or shit hurts like hell and you cry your face off.
Being a mom has been a dream come true. Getting to be a stay at home mom has been the sweetest, most colossal cherry on top. It's what I've wanted more than anything in the whole world since I was a kid. I've always known I wanted to be a mom, and the journey to motherhood was a long and painful one: Three miscarriages, an emergency surgery as a result of an ectopic pregnancy, loss of a fallopian tube, infertility issues, and so many poking and prodding tests.
Then like magic, at the - truly - most perfect time, came my Donna. After the miscarriages and then five years of no positive pregnancy tests, came two pink lines on a stick the night before I graduated college, while my whole family, plus inlaws, were, for the first time, in the same place (our first purchased home), three days before we were supposed to begin IVF--did you get all that? There's no other way to say it--the timing was *chef's kiss* perfect.
Pregnancy was easy, despite so much morning (and night) sickness. I had the natural hypnobirth I wanted and had researched/absorbed for the previous three years. But more than that, I said birth was going to be easy and peaceful and nothing like the horror stories I'd heard, and it was. I willed it so. Mind over matter. I essentially meditated my daughter down the birth canal while dancing with and kissing my husband, and when I felt her rest at the place for expulsion, I pushed for ten minutes and she was earthside. It almost felt too easy. Maybe because I never feared it?
Breastfeeding came naturally for us with not a single issue, outside of plugged ducts (once per kid) that I massaged out in a hot shower. All of this I am grateful for because I know these are not easy feats for many, many women. But somehow, I said, "this is how things are gonna go for me, despite all the people I know personally and all the strangers who say it's not so easy; their story isn't my story," and I got lucky. And that's how it is with parenthood: some parts of it come effortlessly for some, and some parts are difficult, disastrous events for others. And the latter is me with school. Mind over matter is out the window, meditating and praying under the moonlight isn't helping for shit. This is difficult and I am a disaster, but maybe because I've always feared this moment.
The thought that tomorrow begins the chapter of parenthood where I begin sending my first born off to school, to be away from me for seven hours a day, five days a week seems a million times harder than birth or breastfeeding every single day for five years, seven months, two weeks, and three days (and still counting). I've never felt this much anxiety. My head literally hurts all day, my heart, too. Damn these kindergarten blues.
Donna is ready and has been so brave about this new transition. Lord knows I need her to be. Because after I've hyped up kindergarten to her, I've walked away for a quick cry in the pantry. And after she's gone to bed, I've sobbed like.a.fucking.baby. I've even crept into her room to sleep with her on some of my rougher nights.
It seems like yesterday she was born and I had all the time in the world with her. I think of those first three months of her life and how we bounced between the couch and the bed, nursing the days away while watching Parks and Rec, Charlotte's Web, and lots of Doc McStuffins. I know it's unpopular, but I loved it: the nursing for hours on end and having nowhere to be but cozied up in our home, together. Those days where we were both new, they were so slow and peaceful. It was beautiful and I don't think I'll ever look back on them and not immediately well up with tears. "The days are long, but the years are short" they say. "They" are right.
At three months, I wanted friends for the both of us, so I found a place for moms to meet online, and I formed my mom crew. First Florida, then Texas. First Donna, then Michael. Hundreds of playdates we've done. I've hosted a ton, and we've been hosted too. So many playgrounds and indoor play places. Parks & trails, children's museums, even the beach. We were never short on friends. But there were plenty of times I enjoyed just us two, or us three (now with her brother) doing a playdate without anyone else tagging along.
I can't tell you just how much fun it's been. I've always felt like a kid at heart, and I have wanted nothing more than to give my children the most magical childhood with memories to last a lifetime. And especially memories of a mom who ran through all those tunnels with them, jumped in the ball pits, bounced on the trampolines, and slid down the slippery slides right alongside them, even when I was nine months pregnant.
To know that those playdates are over for Donna is crushing and I feel so weighed down by this sadness and my anxiety.
Though I've enjoyed the one on one time I've recently gotten with Michael when she went back to preschool this June (for three days a week), Donna's absence was still felt as I'd remember those first couple years of new motherhood where Donna and I did all these same things together. I hear her laughter, see her smile, and those big brown eyes that would widen like super moons every time I took her somewhere to play. It was rare we'd stay home, before the pandemic. Our days were so full and trust me, I was never not tired, but since day one, it's been everything to see my babies light up when I ask if they want to go to such and such place that morning. The joy on their little faces erases my exhaustion, or at least puts it on hold, just to see them so happy. I wish everyday could be like that.
When I think of how long we've had, I am grateful with all my heart. It'll never be enough for me though. I'll always want more. More time. And though I knew this day would come, and as much as we've done between many trips across several states, and as many years worth of bonding as Donna and I had, the 'School Chapter' feels like it came overnight, and all those years by in a blink.
My baby's growing up.
Each stage of parenthood/childhood brings new challenges. A little more independence here and there for the kiddo, a little more letting go for the parent. This one has been the hardest on my heart. I can do tough things, and I constantly impress myself with how I can put mind over matter and breathe through moments that require so much work, whether it be mental or physical. But I feel the most out of control in my headspace and my emotional state than ever before. It's as though I'm grieving the end of something gut-wrenchingly painful, while still having the wherewithal to know, I will likely cry even harder (if that's possible) tomorrow, and maybe again on Thursday, but I'll come out of this and all will be fine (more than fine) once I've moved into the acceptance, and maybe even joyful, part of this new beginning.
It feels like something's wrong with me for being this dramatic and heartbroken. I only know three friends who are kindergarten-reeling to this degree, and I have read some ugly-cry-inducing blog posts from moms I don't know who are feeling everything I can't articulate. But still. We seem to be in the minority. Most of my mom friends are posting "back to school" photos with apple and book emojis and captioning positive, encouraging, and simple words. I wonder if they're hurting as much as me outside of the one line captions and context-appropriate emojis? I see posts from hilarious mom meme pages I follow, where the moms are sharing how thrilled they are to have a quiet house again after spending the summer with their kids.
I'm not going to pretend for a second my kids don't drive me crazy too. I am guilty of losing my temper and yelling and apologizing from my soul and then desperately wanting a moment to myself. But no matter how tired I am, how badly I want to sit down and watch what I want, or how nice it would be to sit down and eat without getting up so many times my food goes cold, I one-million percent would always, always, always rather my kids be home with me where I can see them and know they're safe.
Because it's not just the grieving of this one chapter coming to an end, it's the trusting that I am struggling with. It's going to be a monumental effort on my part to relinquish my full time role as overseer of my daughter's wellbeing to someone I've met once for two minutes, in a building we've set foot in once. A building that Donna looked way too small to be walking through. I feel like I'm being forced to do something I don't feel even slightly comfortable doing. Again, I know this probably sounds insane because it's school and it's part of life and blah blah blah. But I never looked at it through the lens I'm looking at it now, as a mother. A mother letting go a little.
A mom endlessly hoping and praying that the teacher is kind and patient and passionate about her very important (very appreciated) job, and that the classmates are nice. Praying that no one makes fun of how Donna still pronounces words that begin with sp (such as spelling, sprint, sport, or spanish) with an f sound (e.g. felling, frint, fort, fanish). Praying that Donna doesn't excitedly talk about something she likes, only to be called a baby for watching it or playing with it, and comes home disinterested in this hypothetical thing she loved so much. Praying that she has someone to eat with at lunch and play with at recess. Praying, praying, praying.
My baby's growing up.
You can grieve anything that ends that meant the whole world to you, even if it's really a small chapter in the grand scheme of things. If it's ending or changing and you don't want it to, and your heart wants badly to hold on longer - the more I think about it (with tears fully flowing down my face right now) - it makes sense you'd grieve it, and there's nothing silly about that. You - we - I, just gotta remember that grief is temporary, healing is inevitable, and "joy comes in the morning."
Not tomorrow morning, though. Tomorrow is kindergarten and bravery will be necessary as I lead my girl through double doors and new hallways to her classroom and wish her a wonderful day. And I can't imagine I'll make it even a foot without crying as I turn my back to her. Can't get too crazy with the tears because Michael might be fighting off tears of his own (he is so attached to his sister) and I'll have to be doubly brave. I can will that so.
So no, not tomorrow, but hopefully joy will find me in the morning on Thursday. If not then, soon. I will it so.
