While there, we listened attentively as Mrs. H. went over the rules of her classroom, drop off and pick up procedures, the profile of an ideal Pre-K backpack (one zipper please), and an "inclusive" snack policy: only a real fruit, a real vegetable or a real cheese allowed.
'A real cheese? What else would there be?' one mom asked?
As a menu marketer, I was tempted to tell the class the difference: look out for that little asterisk that says pasteurized processed. But I kept my mouth shut.
Before getting up from our miniature chairs in the classroom that evening, we were asked to write a letter to our daughter. We each received a small piece of blue paper, lined with clouds. Our direction was to share something with our child on his or her first day of school. It didn't matter if it was in cursive. It was for a memory book that they would assemble at the end of the year.
The other moms and dads started scribbling, but I couldn't gather my words fast enough. I wasn't prepared for this. I would have come with an outline, notes, a perspective! I needed more time!
As Mrs. H told her class of parents to take a look around the room, ask questions, wrap up, I finally started writing. It was rushed though and I felt like I could have done better. So with a little more time this afternoon, here I go ...
Mary,
On your first day of school, you were so excited to leave. You jumped into my car, waved goodbye to Bobby, as he cried for you to come back.
I looked in my rear view mirror and saw my baby, all grown up. You had picked your outfit, brushed your hair, and secured it in place with a headband all by yourself just moments before. Your ladybug backpack was packed with cantaloupe for snack. Goofy's head was sticking out of an opening in the (one) zipper allowed.
On the way to school, you told me that you had long, golden hair. And that it was beautiful. 'I'm lucky to have golden hair. Right Mama?' You are. You are a beautiful little girl.
Then you told me, enthusiasm ringing in your voice, that you were going to meet your teachers, calling them by name. (Names that I told you once and that I couldn't even recall that morning.) Wow, I thought. You are (such) a smart little girl.
I told you that some of the kids might be upset today. I didn't use the c-r-y word per Mrs. H.'s advice, but I said if you saw a kid like that, tell them your name and ask them to be your friend. Maybe even offer them a hug. 'Okay, Mama. I will.' You are a sweet, good little girl.
When we got there, you got right in line with the other kids and marched up the stairs into school. Confident. Relaxed. Somehow knowing in a way that I didn't anticipate. You are a strong little girl.
As a couple kids wailed for their Mommies. And as some Mommies wailed for their babies, we parted ways dry-eyed. It wasn't a lack of emotion, rather a moment of shared reassurance. You were okay. I was okay. You were proud. I was so proud.
School is the start of exciting new things: opportunities and the challenges they present, new experiences and the friendships forged because of them, choices and their consequences. Sometimes those opportunities, experiences and choices might seem different or scary, but in assessing them always remember who your are: beautiful inside and out, smart, sweet, strong, and above all, my good little girl.
Daddy and I love you forever and always.
Mommy / Lo.
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