“Mommy, come with me? Mommy, please don’t go?”
As I slipped on your little shoes, your small hand reached up to grasp mine tightly. We hoisted your blue dog backpack onto your shoulders, and while I offered a reassuring smile, my heart sank. In the parking lot of your new preschool, I could already see the tears welling in your eyes. Your little feet shuffled toward the classroom, gripping my finger like it was a lifeline. Your lips were downturned, signaling your distress.
If this is meant to be a positive step, why does it feel so overwhelming?
On your inaugural preschool drop-off, you stretched out your arms and cried out for me. Tears streamed down your rosy cheeks as I leaned down to give you a kiss, forcing myself to turn and walk back to my car, leaving behind your heartfelt cries. It shattered me. I wish you could grasp the significance of this moment, but at just 2 years old, you simply can’t.
By now, you’re likely inside, surrounded by your friends. You may have stopped crying, but I’m still here, feeling the weight of it all. As I sit in the car, writing this letter to you, I hope that one day—when you’re older and can comprehend—there’s something important I want you to know about preschool drop-offs.
My dear boy,
By the time you read this, those preschool drop-offs will be mere echoes of the past. In truth, you may not recall them at all. You won’t remember the tears or the way your teacher gently held you while I hurried back to my car, desperately trying to maintain my composure. You won’t recall the panic in my eyes or the flush of your cheeks. You may not remember, but I assure you, I will.
You won’t realize how your father and I deliberated over which school would nurture you, ensure your safety, and foster your growth. It took us months to gather the courage to enroll you. After visiting twelve schools—yes, twelve!—we finally chose a quaint little place with vibrant decorations and caring teachers who had been there for years. We wanted you to feel secure with these adults, to forge new friendships, and to engage in play without me hovering nearby. You might not remember the sleepless nights and tears we shed over this choice, but we certainly will.
You won’t know how guilty I felt while cleaning the carpet for the umpteenth time. I had tidied the house and prepped everything, convinced that by 10 a.m., your confidence had taken a hit. While you were wondering about my absence, I was on the phone with Ms. Carter, hearing how you delighted in playing with a brown plastic donut and giggled as the teacher blew bubbles during circle time. You may not remember these moments, but know that I will.
Perhaps you’ll be 7 when you read this, rolling your eyes at what you see as a mother’s overreaction. Or maybe you’ll be a teenager, embarrassed by this heartfelt admission. I like to envision you as a young adult, loading up a trusty sedan with your belongings, ready to embark on a new adventure. As you pull out of the driveway, you might find this letter tucked neatly in the passenger seat.
One day, it will be my turn to experience drop-off. I might put on a brave face, or perhaps tears will stream down my cheeks. Regardless, it will be your moment to hurry back to your car, leaving me sniffling in the rearview mirror. And as that day arrives, you’ll be looking ahead, excited for what’s to come—not glancing back.
You won’t remember the lunchboxes, the tiny socks, or the Mickey Mouse T-shirt I dressed you in. You won’t know that I woke up early to bake wild-berry muffins before preschool. You won’t recall that I sat in the car to write you this letter, tears streaming down my face. You may never fully grasp the pride, love, joy, and heartache that swirl within a parent’s heart as they watch their child take steps toward independence.
You won’t know what that feels like, but I will.
Sincerely,
Emily