The day before preschool started, we played at home, close to each other, sewing, beading, painting, glitter-gluing, talking, and having lunch, never more than twenty feet apart. Blue skies and a cool autumn breezes called us to our favorite park. G went straight to something she had never tried before: the fireman’s pole. “How do I gwab on?”

“It’s a reach. Try sitting and reaching at first. Then grab the pole and slide down.”

“I don’t wan’ to!” her voice tremored, but I could see in her eyes the opposite was true. She sat, reached, grabbed, and slid down the pole. Then she graduated to the curly fireman’s pole. I don’t want to today meant she was afraid of reaching for the pole. For school, for the next step, for life. The next time she said she did not want to go to school, I asked, “Are you scared?”

“Yes!”

“Well, let’s just try it,” I offered. “What if you never tried tennis or swimming or riding a bike? Aren’t you brave when you’re at the top of the hill, ready to ride down?” I reminded her of summer’s start when we left her bike at the top of the steep hill leading to the lake. “By the end of the season, you rode down all by yourself!”

The next morning, G woke up and faced her fears head on. I don’t want to. I don’t want to. I don’t want to. Every step was painful. We walked in, went to the bathroom, filled her cubby. Entering the classroom together, we held hands. “Don’t go,” she whispered. Several teachers invited me to sit at the craft table and create with the children until school officially began.

When circle time started, G would not stay by herself. I took her out to the bench in the hall and went inside to find a teacher. “What do we do now?” I asked Beth, the one I knew the best.

“You create a plan,” she answered. “Say goodbye. Carry or bring her to me. I take her into class. We call you or come get you if she is sad for more than five minutes. For most children, it’s less.”

Back in the hallway, I told Gigi, “Just this one day, we’ll try. If you want more, great. If not, we’ll talk about it with your teachers and Papa.” She started to cry and gripped me like a monkey. With my heart in my throat, I passed her to Beth.

“Don’t go, Mama!”

“I’ll be in the hall,” I replied, as we previously agreed.

I walked away, my ears on hyper-alert for her tears, but after a moment or two, I heard nothing. Finally I allowed my own tears to come. I called no one. Did G feel alone on the other side of the wall? Or was she a part of something good? It felt so barbaric. Was it pre-wired within us to force letting go?

When she cried, I felt her pain and my own deep wounds from my mother leaving me before I was ready. But watching G play tennis with friends this summer, I truly believed the time was right for her to master the fireman’s pole and three-day preschool. Fear should not win. For G, maybe it was merely the pain of separation, the moment of letting go that hurt the most. Beth came to find me, “She’s stronger than she thinks she is. How are you?”

 

On Sunday afternoon, G took her dad to the nature preserve where her nursery school was located. She was very proud of showing him what she gained at school; around me she was more wary of what she lost. For extra precaution, I spoke with the head teacher about a plan for the following week, if we needed it. She said Gigi could bring a baby for her cubby if she wanted, or she could carry a note in her pocket from me and have a teacher read it during the day.

I asked G, “Do you like those ideas?”

“Yes.”

“She said it’s normal to feel worried before school starts. Other kids feel that way, too. The teachers will help you get comfy in school. They are all mamas, so they understand.”

“Really!? In din’ know dey were all mamas!”

In her book Learning to Say Goodbye, Nancy Balaban suggested saying, “I know how you feel when I leave. We will both miss each other, but I will be back, and I know your teacher will take good care of you.” She said it was important to acknowledge the tough part so a child felt safe forging through to the other side. When G reverted to her refrain of not wanting school, I responded, “It’s hard to say goodbye, isn’t it?” She agreed.

Sunday night I made a pocket-sized felt bag with a daisy patch on the front. I sewed a ribbon onto the corner and attached a note to the ribbon. Tacking the pocket onto Gigi’s outfit, I left it in her room for the morning.

“Wead it to me.”

“’How is it possible that I love you more each day? Love, Mommy.’ ”

When we got to school, we put her teddy bear in her cubby, walked into class, and G led me to the crafts table. “Dwaw!” she handed me a pen and paper. I outlined her name and decorated it for about ten minutes while she drew on several pages. Behind us, one of teachers reminded a few more minutes were left until circle time. Not looking at me, G grabbed my wrist: “Go. GO.”

I walked away. No tears. No assistance.

At the end of the day, she ran out, “I had fun! I like it! We made a cwrysalis. We sang a buttewfwy song. We were quiet like squirrels. We helwped clean up SO fast. I don’ do dat at home, do I? I’m good foa my teachows. I lissen to dem.”

Each day I wrote a new note for her “love pocket” which we redesigned with fresh fabric and attached with heart-topped safety pins. Every morning I walked in to the classroom, did a small craft, and when she was ready, G would say “Leave!” without looking at me, and I departed.