Before we attend to the task at hand, I wish to share the happy news that Target, or at least a Target, has replaced its sad little bagged-up nursing bra stand (which grew emptier and more pathetic as they discontinued the line) with a ginormous wall of nursing bras, many of the cozy-cottony variety and all reasonably attractive, affordable, and available in black. Seriously, I was agog. I mean, that's more than I found in department stores as a whole, ever, and it's a more attractive and way cheaper selection than any of the Maternity Mafia (you know, Motherhood, Mimi, Pea in the Pod) offer. Plus you can actually try them on, oh my god.
Whew.
Now, preschool. I remember preschool, and before that, Mom's Day Out, which was run by a gaggle of nice old Methodist ladies and which was apparently the end point for outdated wallpaper sample books, judging by the surviving crafts shoved into my baby book. A Mother's Day card, in an unappetizing 1960's golden green kitchen print; a butterfly with pipe-cleaner antennae and wings of synthetic taupe grasscloth. Sadder wings were never seen. I weep for you, flightless butterfly. Anyway, I loved it and called it "Mom Stay Out," and generally enjoyed myself playing dinosaurs with the older boys and prickling in silent embarrassment when my best friend burst into wails upon being dropped off. I mean, everyone knew she was my friend! Her behavior was reflecting badly upon me! (Yes, I thought like that as a three-year-old. Really.)
Preschool itself was an autoharp wonderland presided over by an infinitely kind woman who taught us how to tie, read, and sing "This Land is Your Land." She also held annual campouts in her backyard (one night for boys, one for girls) and had an end-of-year swimming party. (Yeah, it was the seventies. Different times, Jack.) In all, I remember it pretty well, and it was a good, good time. (Probably for my mother, too, who produced my sister Gretchen when I was about 2 1/2, and who was all too glad to Stay Out for a bit.)
Thanks to good fortune and good friends, we've been gradually introducing Sophia to time away from family caregivers. Judging by her eagerness to escape my clutches for the greener pastures of Awesome Babysitter and Beloved Neighbor Children, the transition has not been a traumatic one. "Mama," she informed me this morning as we packed up to go babysit for Beloved Neighbor Children, "I want to go to Polly and Jack and Menita's house, and you to go away!" Big smile.
"Well, sweetie, today it's my job to take care of everybody," I told her. Her face fell, and she began to cry. Sigh. When she was a baby, I became jealous of the fishy mobile, because she smiled at it and not me. Now, I welcome the words "I want you to go away and I will not call for you!" I feel no pangs of sadness, nor do I feel guilt.
I do, however, feel a mild unease at the prospect of abandoning her in a sea of rhinovirus-oozing biters who will whomp her with wooden airplanes*. I know her, and when she's the slightest bit uncomfortable she freezes and allows any and all whomping to continue unprotested. When I leave her with the neighbors or their sitter, I know there are no more than three (generally pretty reasonable -- stop laughing, Menita) toddlers per adult, and they're all kind of used to each other, and the adult cares, and...yeah.
Of course we found a good preschool; of course all the adults (and there were plenty) seemed to genuinely love the kids, and it's well-regarded, and if I wanted to I could come spend every day there with Sophia, yosh yosh yosh (as Sophia says). What I don't like is that they only do a 5-day program -- no Tuesday-Thursday option. So it's only three hours a day, but it's every day. It seems like an awful lot for such a tiny person! Argh, but she'll be three in August, and she won't start until June or July...I don't know. There's really no other way to get in all the courses I need to take. And, man, while I want to homeschool a bigger kid, I have zero problem with preschool (barring the creepy college-prep kind), practically or philosophically.
So. You. Dear internets. How have you dealt with this? How will you deal with it? Success stories? Horror stories? I would love to know.
*Not your child, of course.