School Isn't for Mommies

We have learned a lot of new things these first couple days of nursery school: running isn't allowed, there is another girl named Hannah in her class, hopping on one foot isn't a prerequisite like Hannah thought it should be, and they have these very yummy snacks called donut holes - "and some are sprinkled with sugar, Ma Ma!" :)

However the most important lesson Hannah has learned, is that mommies and daddies don't come to school. This was something we talked about in depth (for both of our sakes!), but I think Hannah must have thought it only applied to other children. She, of course, would be exempt!

So on Tuesday, that fateful first day, a chord was played on the piano, and the older kids who attended this school last year began to say goodbye to their parents and take a seat on the rug to begin the day. I looked down at Hannah and she was stiff as a board, leaning slightly to the side so she was able to seek refuge behind my legs, yet keep everyone in her sight at the same time. (As a side note, I should say that I am truly amazed a teacher can play a simple chord on the piano, and upon hearing that chord, the mob of children drop what they are doing and go to sit on the rug quietly. Is it a magic piano? Does it release some sort of neuron gas that forces children to be cooperative? But most importantly ... why doesn't my piano work like that?!)

I took Hannah's hand and guided her to the rug, telling her she was going to have SO much fun ... bla ... bla ... bla. But Hannah wasn't listening to me and she could see straight through my blabbering. Her eyes and attention were glued to a little boy who was sobbing uncontrollably a few feet away. His mother had just left the room and a teacher was holding him, trying to comfort him. Hannah turns to me with big, pleading eyes and says,

"Mommy, I just want you to come with me."

I don't remember exactly what I said at this point. What with listening to the little boy's heart-wrenching whimpers and looking at Hannah's lip starting to quiver ... I was on thin ice myself.
Then, out of nowhere, a teacher swooped in, severed the bond between Hannah and I and practically boxed me out in a move that was reminiscent of high school basketball. She flashed a smile as she turned away, pulling my daughter with her, and said she would take it from here and I should join the parents downstairs for a quick meeting.

But ... But ...

Jeff started to tug at my sleeve, coaxing me to follow the group of parents walking out the door. But ... But ... I hadn't gotten a chance to tell Hannah I loved her for the 105th time! I didn't have a chance to reiterate for the 96th time that she was not to leave the building with anyone but me. I didn't get a chance to introduce her to the teacher who had swept her away ... and that makes her a stranger ... which then made me realize I never really finished our "don't talk to strangers" talk with Hannah, and ... oh ... there were just so many things I had to cram into those last few precious seconds of saying goodbye!

It's no wonder children cry when their parents leave! I was ready to shovel 15 life lessons down her throat and top it off with a few kisses and some "I love yous" in 10 seconds or less. Good grief!

But Hannah did great. Her teacher said she stood and watched everyone pretty much the whole time the first day, but by the second day, she had learned how to make stars out of Play-Doh. This apparently gave her just enough confidence to loosen up a bit and have some fun.

So with some extra snuggling and a promise of ice cream pie every night to celebrate, it seems our little girl can fly. Hopping on one foot may not be required as she thought it was, but I told her I thought maybe they saved that for Clown School! :)