This morning I woke up early, showered, and dressed. Then my wife and I woke up our daughter, who seeing it was dark did protest loudly. But we got her out of bed, and a few minutes later she was her usual happy loquacious self at the breakfast table.
We got her dressed in a navy dress with white polka dots and black patent leather shoes, straightened her hair, took some pictures, and got in the car. We parked about a half a block from the school and put her back pack on her. She wanted me to carry it because it was so heavy (sic). Then she wanted “uppy”—also a non-starter. A diminutive safety officer in an orange belt directed us to the Kindergarten rooms. We found a coat hook with her name, and a place at a table, also with her name (although not with the nickname she’s used to).
She was not too pleased. She was looking around at the other children and parents, and wanted to climb into my arms and go home and cuddle—and I wanted the very same thing. I’m not OK with this.
She’s my little baby. She’s the one who crawls into my lap in the morning, pushing the paper out of the way so she can pretend to by a kitty cat, mewling and purring and demanding cuddles. She’s the one whom I take for bike rides and then collapse onto the couch with afterward while she begs for another ride and I beg her to let me nap. She’s not a big girl who goes to school by herself, eight hours a day, five days a week, to be bored, excited, scared, amused, comforted, and intrigued. I’m the center of her life, not some goddamned brick building with a bunch of strangers in it.
I’m not OK with this. Not one bit.