I confess, preschool almost broke me.
Right up front, I would like to disclose that the following reflection was written in the days surrounding the deadly shooting at Robb Elementary School, in Uvalde Texas, on May 24, 2022.
That said…
Emotionally speaking, I was woefully ill-prepared for the inevitable day when our son would have to be placed in the care of complete strangers. It was in the fall of 2013, just before his second birthday, when we decided it was time to transition our son from private childcare at home to preschool. As parents, we were all in agreement. And, as a fairly new, child-rearing quartet, we felt that our reasons for taking this transitional step were sound. Our son would have the benefit of an early education and a regular opportunity to socialize with his peers. And we, as working parents, would have relatively affordable daycare. Yes, in theory, the decision was easy. In reality, however, the follow-through was heart-crushingly difficult.
I know, already this memory seems emotionally overwrought. Perhaps. But hear me out, and I promise to try and keep the histrionics at a low boil for as long as I can. As a matter of fact, in a show of good faith, I will start with the positives.
We were very fortunate to have a highly-rated childcare center on the university campus where I was employed at the time. The convenient proximity of the facility to my job meant that I would be able to easily drop our son at school on my way in to work each morning. Even better, it meant that he would spend his day just a short walk from my office. That provided some valuable peace of mind for everyone.
Okay. Well, that was pretty much about all of the positives. Now, moving right along to the inevitable daddy drama.
First, there was a mandatory preschool orientation. Here is how that introductory, cataclysmic clusterfuck went down. We were instructed, along with all of the other incoming families, to show up at the school at a predetermined time with our toddlers in tow. The three other parents were out of town on orientation day, so my sister – a mom herself – volunteered to accompany me and my son. For moral support.
When we arrived, the three of us were welcomed and ushered in. Almost immediately, we were directed to one of the classrooms where we joined an accumulation of parents and children who would be with us for the duration of the introductory presentation. At first, all seemed well. A room full of unsuspecting grown-folks watched as their children explored the captivating, new environment. Colorful blocks, games, toys, and books littered the space. And the wide-eyed youngsters, as a whole, seemed happily enthralled.
In very short order, however, we were joined by the center’s director, and a handful of teachers. It was then that we received a more formal greeting and were told how the subsequent orientation session would unfold. First, we were shown a door on one side of the classroom. An exit that would lead the parents to an adjoining area where the director would regale us with a PowerPoint outlining payment schedules, attendance policies, and school procedures. There would also be an opportunity at that time for questions. During the slideshow and Q&A, our children would be left in the classroom with the teachers. Lovely women all, I had no doubt, but nonetheless they were adults that our children didn’t know from Adam – or in this case Eve. Finally, we were reassured that we would be reunited with our kids at the end of the parent portion of the presentation.
It was at this point that we were instructed to say goodbye to our children, and then slip out through the aforementioned doorway as quickly as possible.
The first mother moved to the door, peeled her daughter from her leg, and scurried out. Immediately the little girl was in tears and her impressively loud cry carried through the room like a fire alarm. Needless to say, preschool pandemonium quickly ensued. Before long, a crowd of adults was huddled at the single doorway trying to extricate themselves from their shrieking children. I don’t have a clear recollection of how my sister and I made it through the melee. Perhaps I blacked out. The next thing I recall, however, is sitting in a folding chair on the other side of the door. The wood and plaster that now separated me from my son did little to muffle the chorus of traumatized toddlers. And through the aching cacophony of wails, I clearly heard my son’s unique cry. Up until that moment, I had no idea that he had a sound so distinctly his. I have no doubt that every parental ear in the room with me was similarly attuned to a cry of their own.
The director rambled on from slide to slide, stopping every now and then to assure us all that our children were being well cared for in the adjacent room. But still the wailing continued. I tried to imagine what those malevolent teachers could possibly be doing in there that would fuel such prolonged anguish. Were they holding a container of puffs just out of arms reach? Confiscating binkies? Feeding picture books into the paper shredder? What the hell was happening in there?!
Once again, the director paused his presentation. This time, just long enough to let us know that the kids would be moving from the classroom next door to the playground behind us. That is where we would be reunited with them shortly. Sure enough, the distressing din began to migrate. First east and then a little south. I turned around and saw that there were windows and a glass door at the far end of the room that led outside. A clear escape route. Reunification was just that close. Would it be horrible, I thought, if I just make a break for it now? I mean, fuck this tedious, explanatory bullshit. I couldn’t possibly concentrate on anything this guy was saying anyway. And my son was steadfastly freaked out. Still, I could hear his distinctive cry through all the others. The ongoing mayhem was agonizing for everyone involved. What if I rebelled? Perhaps if I gave into my instinct, and made a break for the playground right now, others would follow. I was still wrestling with myself about what to do when the director finally dismissed our group.
I emerged into the sunlight, embraced my son, and did my best to let him know that everything was fine. He calmed down pretty quickly and before I knew it my accelerated heart rate began to normalize. My sister, my son, and I hung out a bit longer and explored the schoolyard.
Oh. One last positive. They had a pretty kick-ass schoolyard.
Following the orientation, there was one bit of information that managed to stick with me through all of the emotional torture. No binkies allowed. An unbendable rule that we would be forced to adhere to. Before starting daycare, our son would have to be weaned off his pacifier. To be fair, he was almost two years old. It was time. But, man-o-man, how he loved his pacifiers.
That evening, after tucking him into bed and before our nightly foray into the further exploits of Curious George, I gently brought up the topic of his pacifiers. Specifically, I lovingly suggested that it might be time to start thinking about giving them up. I posited that he was getting so big and probably didn’t even need them anymore anyway. He looked at me for a moment. And then he reached up and plucked out the pacifier that was in his mouth, offered it to me, and I took it. He then reached back where there was a spare pacifier sitting near his pillow and handed that one to me as well. Hmmm… I was anticipating a meltdown. First his and then mine of course. But nothing.
Suddenly, I spotted the Jack-in-the-Box on his nightstand and suggested that maybe we could give his pacifiers to Jack. I explained that Jack, in turn, could then pass them along to younger kids who still needed them. My son seemed to like the idea, so I collected the remaining pacifiers from his dresser drawer, stuffed them all into the box around Jack, and closed the lid. I read him to sleep and then snuck back into his room later to confiscate the hidden loot. In the morning, my son was elated to find that somehow Jack had magically made the pacifiers disappear. And that was that. Now we could focus on the first day of school.
A few days later we stepped out of the car in front of the daycare, made our way into his classroom, and tried to settle in. I stayed for a bit on that first day to try and help him acclimate, but before I knew it, it was time to leave him. His tears came quickly when I said goodbye. I hesitated and his teacher assured me that he would be fine. Somehow, I separated myself, exited the building, and headed off to work. It wasn’t a long walk across campus and I was able to hold myself together until I got inside my office and closed the door. There, alone, I cried.
In the days that followed, the tears continued. First his and then mine. It was reassuring to know that his crying subsided shortly after I left him each morning, and being there to greet him when he was done at the end of the day also helped. Eventually, his teacher suggested that a consistent goodbye routine in the mornings might make the separation easier. You know, like a secret handshake. So, it took a little negotiation, some trial and error, but this is what my son and I eventually settled on. When it was time for me to leave him each morning, he would give me three hugs and three kisses. After that, I would exit the classroom and wave goodbye to him through the first window. I would then meet him at a second window and wave goodbye again there. Next, I headed back into the classroom for one last hug. Finally, only then, was I free to go.
As the weeks progressed, the goodbyes did become easier. And eventually he added a question after the last hug. “Can you pick me up early?”
“I’ll try,” I would say back to him. The early pick up very seldom happened, of course, but he liked that the interchange had become part of our goodbye ritual just the same.
As the months flew by, we both got better and the goodbye ritual became less important. And then came the morning when there was only one quick hug before he looked up at me and said, “Can I go now?”
At first, I was confused. I thought that he was asking if he could leave with me, but then he glanced back over his shoulder where a group of kids were playing on one of the mats. And it hit me. He was asking if he could go and be with his classmates.
“Of course,” I said, and off he trotted.
I made my way quietly out of the room. I stopped at the first window and watched as he joined the other kids. I moved on to the second window, and from there I couldn’t even see him anymore. I exited the building and made the walk across campus to my office. Once inside, I closed the door. And again. There, alone, I cried.
Flash forward a half decade or so. There I am, rummaging through my sock drawer with my son looking on. Without thinking, I uncover a small cache of hidden pacifiers. Immediately he recognized them.
“Aren’t those the ones that Magic Jack took?” he wanted to know.
“No,” I said. But clearly, I was fumbling to concoct some kind of a reasonable explanation. “These must have been some other ones that we forgot,” I suggested. In the moment, he seemed willing to play along. No doubt he was already too savvy for me and caring enough to not want to torture me any further. The reality was that I just wasn’t ready myself to let those pacifiers go. The tragic truth is that I’m still not ready.
Flash forward another few years, and I am dropping my son of at school. It is in the recent wake of yet another deadly shooting at an elementary school. I watched him pass through the gates and disappear inside before I slowly walked back to my car. I climbed inside and closed the door. And again. There, alone, I cried.
As the tears subsided, I closed my eyes and I recalled. Three hugs. Three kisses. A wave goodbye at the first window. A wave goodbye at the second window. And then, back inside for one last hug.
