One year

Sometimes I wish my husband wrote a blog, because I would love to read his take on his day as a "Watch Dog" volunteer at Suzannah's school this week. (Watch Dogs is an initiative that focuses on providing positive male role models; Dads/uncles/grandfathers/father figures volunteer in all sorts of different capacities.) Matt took Thursday off work to spend the day at the school, where he spent the morning volunteering in another kindergarten class and spent the afternoon in our daughter's. Also, he had all three recesses plus lunch with her class. Suzannah was so excited about this, as you can imagine. I so wish I could have watched a little of it.

I just told Matt I'm writing about the end of our daughter's kindergarten year, which seemed distressing to him.

"I'm not ready for that," he said. "Can't she just stay in kindergarten forever?"

In some ways this has been a very long year, so maybe it shouldn't have given me such a start to read that kindergarten registration is happening this month. It did, though, because I still remember so vividly the evening we took Suzannah to her school for the very first time and sat in the gym with the other families and (mostly) shy almost-kindergarteners. Suzannah was not even quite five years old -- is that possible? -- and she wouldn't speak above a whisper. I'm not sure she actually spoke to anyone besides Matt or me at all, actually. I remember chattering away at her as we waited for the principal to speak to us: Oh, look, isn't this neat, this is where you're going to play, and look at those pretty art projects on the wall, won't it be fun do do those, and oh, look, there is the lady who will be your teacher over there, and isn't this all so great? I must have sounded desperate or insane or both. Suzannah sat next to me and held up one hand and said, "Mommy, don't talk to me right now." She was all, I am HANDLING this, thank you.

One year later, I'm waiting at her classroom door at the end of the day and before she will allow me to hug her, she says, "Mom, you need to sign a permission slip in my folder because we're going on a field trip," or "There are some important papers in my folder, so make sure you read both sides." ("We can tell Suzannah anything and we know she'll tell you!" her teacher said this week. "She remembers everything!")

Or I'll ask about someone she plays with at recess, and she says, quite nonchalantly, "Oh, that's Luke. He's my boyfriend." And then just ahead of us on the sidewalk a round-faced little boy waves and says, "Suzannah! Hideout tomorrow!" (I was a little concerned about my daughter holing up in some furtive little "hideout" with a boy during recess, too. I mean, WHO IS WATCHING THESE CHILDREN. But then I learned that the "hideout" is in the middle of a field, so, not so secret. But they have constructed some interesting rock and leaf piles there.)

One year later, and my daughter sits down to write words she knows just for fun, and she draws elaborate and detailed pictures and tells me stories about them. Last summer I could not cajole this child into writing her name; I thought it was because she was left-handed and therefore more easily frustrated with the physical act of writing. Really, it's just that it wasn't her time. Now is her time. And her writing is really beautiful, actually, and she enjoys it, and while I think it's wonderful that her writing and drawing have blossomed like this I think I've probably learned the bigger lesson here, and I think that will continue to be true.

One year later, I'm watching my daughter casually write sentences when I think she's just coloring after school. One year later, and when I meet my daughter at her classroom door she immediately says, "Did you walk to school today?" When I say yes, and she gives a gleeful little whoop and scampers off to the playground with a friend or two, kids who also have the luxury of lingering on the merry-go-round or the swings as the afternoon sun slides across the asphalt while we, the mothers, the older sisters, the baby-sitters, smile indulgently. Later, walking home along the tree-lined path, my daughter tells me about the games they played in P.E., about the books she checked out during Library, about how they had "Big Reading Buddies" today because it's Friday, and also her Big Buddy waved at her when she was a crossing guard, and did I remember that?

I did.

It's been a long year, for me. But in a lot of ways, I hate to see my daughter's kindergarten year come to an end. It's like any other milestone; it's bittersweet. I spent a good portion of last summer feeling like I was going to toss my cookies just because I was so nervous about sending my little baby daughter off to kindergarten. Would she be okay? Would we? How could I possibly take her to school and then drive all the way across town to teach my own classes? And let me tell you, that first day was no picnic for me until I picked her up and saw her little face break into a grin. But she loves her teacher, and I love her teacher, and she seems to have such a nice little class, and she seems happy, and she is learning and growing so much. So much. And she is having all these great experiences separate from what I can really provide for her, she's kind of doing her own thing, but she's doing her own thing in a place that fosters this growing independence while still nurturing her -- in a place I trust. I cannot emphasize enough how much I have come to value this -- that I can walk her to our neighborhood school, that we are putting down roots right here in our community. That we're grounded here. That we can walk to the park and see her classmates there. I've come to realize that this matters to me.

I'm feeling a lot more relaxed about my daughter's transition to first grade. I think she'll be just fine. I don't think I'll spend most of my summer on the verge of throwing up from anxiety, and that'll be lovely. All the same, I'm just not quite ready to let go of this -- this sweet first year of school, with teachers my daughter loves, in a school in which I feel deeply, happily invested.

Still, I guess that's the best way to feel, isn't it? To appreciate something so much that it's a little hard to let go is infinitely preferable to the alternative, and for that, I have nothing but gratitude.