My 5-year-old daughter, Grace, started kindergarten today. Well, that’s only sort of true because it seems like the whole family has started kindergarten today. In order to process this momentous, somewhat mind-blowing experience I feel the need to write about it. I don’t have some processed, well-constructed point to make but rather a collection of varied and possibly useless thoughts that have been jumbling and bumbling around in my head.
I am getting old. How did my little, chubby baby girl turn into a tall, slender backpack toting elementary school student?
I am so young. All these other parents are a good 10 years older than me. I wonder if they know more about being a dad than I do?
Maybe a Dunkin Donuts vanilla long john wasn’t the best brain fuel for Grace’s first day, but it sure did make her happy. I think I remember crying on my first day of school too. Every year between Kindergarten and 6th grade.
How do I encourage my little girl to enjoy and thrive in school when I spent 18 years of my life despising it? Is this one of those “do as I say, not as I did” kind of things?
Is it my job to teach her to tie her shoes, or do they do that in class?
Oh no, here comes one of those PTA blood hound pit bull tiger moms, better pretend I don’t speak English.
That little boy just looked at Grace. If he does that again it’ll be the last mistake he ever makes.
My kid is cuter than yours.
Oh no, now mom and little sister are crying along with Grace. I’m not crying. Am I the strong one or does this mean I don’t care enough?
How come parents never told me how hard this was? Oh, that’s right. Because I was the fourth child and probably a pain in the butt. Sending me to school was a pleasure, I’m sure.
I’m tired. Is it like this every year?
