There has never been a child more excited to start kindergarten than my youngest. It was as though she believed school held a grand secret she was finally being let into. With this revelation, she would achieve what every 5-year-old dreams of becoming…GROWN-UP.
I didn’t shed a tear as she walked hand-in-hand with her brother to the bus. I didn’t cry as the bus pulled away, her little face pressed against the glass, waving joyfully. Even when my husband and I strolled back up the hill, embracing the rare silence of just the two of us, I felt composed. We exchanged glances, almost asking each other, what’s next?
What do I do now, after being a stay-at-home mom for six years?
I’ve been alone before; my daughter had attended preschool. But that day felt distinct. Life had shifted. It was like a tiny, invisible thread had been severed between us—one I hadn’t even noticed until that moment.
In those significant milestones of our children’s lives, time appears to slow down. Details become sharper, colors more vibrant, and feelings more intense. I suspect I’ll remember that first afternoon alone in my house for the rest of my life. I was initially thrilled: Seven hours and twenty-six minutes of freedom!
I could catch up on tasks, plan my life, work out, prepare dinner, and finally finish writing that long-overdue book. But then I noticed her abandoned toys didn’t stir the usual annoyance within me. Folding her now larger clothes brought a wave of nostalgia that pressed painfully against my heart.
There were moments when I’d forget I was alone, my mind wandering to thoughts of where she might be. And then, reality would hit me, and my heart would sink.
Preparing lunch and eating by myself felt surreal—no one chatting incessantly or complaining about the shape of their apple slices. I found myself pondering, what is she doing right now? Is she scared, happy, or lonely? Does she have friends? Is she eating her lunch?
The afternoon was so quiet, almost mocking, whispering, “A vital part of your role is complete.” And it is.
That significant chapter of my job is over. I never anticipated that I would long for the chaos of the terrible twos and even worse threes so soon. All those videos I made capturing my children’s early days now sit untouched because I can’t bear to watch them. Her sweet, little voice calling cantaloupe “camel milk” feels like a bittersweet memory that breaks something inside me. No one told me that the hardest part of motherhood isn’t the challenges faced in the trenches, but rather the painful process of letting go.
When she got off the bus that afternoon, there was a glow in her eyes that said, “I now know the secret of kindergarten.” She looked so proud. Yet, there was also a hint of realization—she still needed her mom.
She jumped into my arms as if we hadn’t seen each other for ages, but to me, she felt so small. Her dirty face was still the one I had wiped clean, kissed, and watched smile every day of her existence. All I wanted to do was hold her close and freeze time.
And yes, then I cried. Because I was overjoyed to have her back, and it dawned on me that I still need her too.
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Summary
Emma Johnson reflects on the bittersweet experience of sending her youngest child off to kindergarten. While she initially embraces the newfound freedom, the poignant reminders of her daughter’s early childhood bring about unexpected feelings of nostalgia and sadness. The article highlights the emotional complexities of motherhood, especially during significant milestones.
Keyphrase: kindergarten emotions
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