Last Tuesday marked the closing of a chapter for Ellen and me. As we walked down the long hallway to preschool, Cecilia on my hip and a be-backpacked and be-ponytailed Ellen clutching my one free hand, I realized that it was Ellen’s and my last day at preschool together. (As opposed to Thursdays, which are drop-off days, Tuesdays at preschool are what Ellen calls “Stay Days” – while Cecilia goes to Sibling Care, Ellen and I stick together and enjoy art, circle time, etc. as a team. Now forever, Ellen’s classes will be all drop-off). As soon as I figured out that our time together in class was coming to an end, everything that we did that morning became especially poignant and heartbreaking. The tears started as soon as I helped her put on her art smock, and continued throughout the morning.
When we moms (and one grandpa) separated from our kids and convened at our own meeting, Teacher Lenda gave us sheets of paper and told us that we could use them to write a letter to our children, which they could save and open at some time in the future. Oh, did the tears drip then. I knew I would want to take lots of time to craft a letter to Future Ellen which will allow her a glimpse into what our mornings at preschool entailed, and acquaint her with her Three-Year-Old Self. So through my tears I jotted down a few notes that I could revisit later, in front of my laptop.
Dear Ellen,
This letter is so difficult, not just emotionally, but from a writer’s standpoint as well. From the writer’s standpoint, the difficulty lies in the pressure to get it perfect – to miss nothing, and to use my words to make all the unique and special moments spring to life and feel authentic. From the emotional standpoint, the difficulty lies in not only having a deep connection to all those moments, but in realizing that even my best work will be far from perfect. No matter how well my words conjure images and sounds and mother/daughter connections, words on a page are never as authentic as the living moments they’re describing. And no matter how many words or paragraphs I write, there will be images, sounds, and connections that will be missed. There are just so many moments, a lifetime of moments. I mourn not only the ones that are lost, but also the ones that are recorded, because even after my most diligent work, their description is adequate at best.
When we come to your classroom (after depositing backpack in locker, affixing name tag to back of shirt, and washing hands), you usually enter with a bit of trepidation. Your “Sucking Thumb” (as you have aptly named your right thumb) is in your mouth, and your “Terry Thumb” (as you have named your left thumb) is rubbing the soft spot on your neck, which is the permanent dwelling place of Terry the Turtle, who, just like you, has a mom, a dad, a dog, and a baby sister, and whose family is obviously living a parallel life with ours because they always seem to be engaging in activities surprisingly similar to those in which we engage – i.e., they have Family Movie Night on Fridays, and they can be found at Target several times a week. After the extrication of Sucking Thumb from mouth (sometimes at home you tell me that you are “thinking about stopping,” but in certain situations you still relapse and justify it by saying that sucking your thumb is how Terry gets his food, and Terry the Turtle has to eat), together we greet Teacher Janelle and Teacher Amy. From there, your first destination is the art table, and when you finish what you’re working on, I say to you, “okay, let’s write your name on it. Where should we put it?” You will indicate a spot (usually the one remaining spot that has no paint on it), and I will say, “can you spell it for me?” At the beginning of this year, you said “E, L, E, N,” but now that second “L” has joined the rest of the letters. In just the past few weeks you’ve learned to hold your pencil or crayon the correct way (the squishy spot between Sucking Thumb and first finger is the “bed” and you let your pencil or crayon “rest” there), and you form those letters yourself. Uppercase E is a cinch for you, and your lowercase L’s are long and proud.
This year’s Circle Time has been a vast improvement over Circle Time at last year’s ECFE class. Then, you wanted nothing to do with Circle Time (you very deliberately avoided any period of time which included cheers or hello songs in which attention would be drawn to you), so I was the mom singing “Itsy Bitsy Spider” to myself while you played all alone at the sensory table. Now you are much more comfortable, and Circle Time is a great snuggle time for us. Although Terry does seem to be extremely hungry while we sit with the group, his feeding schedule doesn’t get in the way of your participation. If there are actions involving your hands, you’ll do them with Sucking Thumb still intact.
When it’s time for parents and kids to separate, you give me a great big hug, a big smile, and tell me to “have a good meeting!” When I return with the others at the end of class, you scan the parents sheepishly, and when you see me you break into a run and greet me with the contents of your cubby (usually the painting you made at the class BEFORE this one – it takes a long time for all your thick brushstrokes to dry).
This past Thursday (your very last class for the summer), Teachers Janelle and Amy put together a “Rite of Passage” for you. A little bridge (your classroom’s wooden boat, turned upside-down) stood at the front of the room, and you walked over it to symbolize moving through the Two Plus class and into the Three Plus class. Of course that little program wasn’t really for you, but for us parents, since we’re the ones who see that moment as bigger than it is. We are the dreamers for you, and we see that moment as one little gem in a whole string of gems – one tiny rite of passage amidst a life, YOUR life, that is comprised of all the wonderful rites of passage you have yet to encounter.
It weighs with such gravity, and my dear, it’s just the beginning of our adventures – yours as My Kid, and mine as Your Mom. The old cliché bubbles up in my brain – it’s a journey. But we’re not really headed anywhere, because you are not a “Work in Progress.” You may be three years old, and you may have physical and emotional development still on the horizon, but you are also “Just as You Should Be,” at this very moment and every one after.
Love,
Mom 
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