Iris is a first grader now. See? She absolutely emanates first grader-ness, don't you think?
Eloise is in her last year of preschool. I admit to taking a picture of her but it's still on my phone somewhere. Apparently returning to preschool doesn't quite rank the same as moving up a grade in elementary when pictures are involved.
A really peculiar thing happened on Iris's first day of school. She didn't cry. Not a bit. Not a wayward scared glance, not anything. I walked away quite confused. After all, I had heavily prepared myself for the waterworks to continue in to her second year of school considering they lasted through the entire almost 12 months of her first year. Of course, after the confusion quickly subsided, I cheered. Then I smacked myself upside the head for expecting the same behavior out of her this school year. I totally and completely underestimated her.
Then a truly bizarre thing happened. There was no crying on the second day of school. Or the third or fourth. I didn't even get a hug good-bye on all of these days. After school Iris reported that her day had been "awesome" and today, at the start of the usual three-day weekend, she was sad that tomorrow wasn't (gasp!) Monday.
WHO IS THIS CHILD?!?!
And so, because this blog is about me, me, me, I sit and reflect on my feelings about all of this. I came to only one conclusion:
Leaving my child in hysterics at school every morning was actually easier than watching her run off and leave me behind without so much as a hug or a second glance.
I wasn't prepared for the level of emotion it would elicit inside of me. Wasn't this what I spent all last year hoping and praying for? Yes, I suppose it was. But Iris could have let me down a little easier, couldn't she?
This past week has also been peppered with some other charming behavior designed to push me away in only the perfect way a six year old can. In the "I'm independent now so therefor I'm going to say rotten things to you to demonstrate my need for distance (but ohmygod I'm still so little so don't go TOO far)" sort of way.
I don't like it. Not one bit. Turns out, I need my kids to need me. Like really, really need me. Of course, being a mother means that when our children turn and run towards the world with abandon, we can step back and be crazy proud and not stand in their way. So I'll do that. But you can't make me like it.