Welcome to Preschool
by Za Flores

It’s a tiny brown wren with a curved beak and a white stripe over its eye. It arrives every evening at the very second the sky darkens from gray to black. We stand silently, peering through the glass in the door, watching. It flies right into the corner of the porch overhang where the roof and wall meet. It will sit there for 10 minutes, then tuck its head under its body and go to sleep. Gaby and I know this. We watch the little bird every night.

“Mama, it’s so small,” Gaby says with concern. “Where’s the mommy? If it falls off the wall, will the mommy come and pick it up?”
    
Ahh, the life of a 3-year-old. Mommy’s still the center of the universe, I marvel. The realization triggers a contentment bordering on smugness and pure terror all at once. Who doesn’t want to be the ruler of someone’s world? At the same time, one microscopic misstep and in 18 years Gaby might be sobbing about her evil, heartless mother to some sympathetic tissue-bearing therapist.
   
“The mommy will scoop her up and kiss her boo-boos,” I say. I swing Gaby up into my arms. “Now it’s time to scoop you up into bed.” And with my petite preschooler hanging over my shoulder, we ascend the stairs to her room.

The next morning, Gaby cries as soon as we walk through the door to her preschool. I try to distract her by pointing out the teddy bears all over the wall but she’s having none of it. Steeling myself, I give her to the teacher. I turn and walk briskly out. There’s a notice on the door, a reminder to new parents of all the forms we’re supposed to turn in. I’ll have to deal with it later; the words are all blurry from my tears. I can’t read it.
    
Later in the morning it hits me. In two short years Gaby will be in kindergarten full time. That means both kids gone all day. As I get in the car to pick up Gaby, I frown. I’m not looking forward to an empty, quiet house. 

Rochelle, my 10-year-old, is singing a Japanese song at the breakfast table. Where she learned it, I have no idea. Lately she’s taken to pretending that she lives far away, in foreign countries. It’s another reminder that she’s pulling away. Asserting her independence. Before I know it, she’ll be a teenager, then graduating high school, and then she’ll be gone. All my kids will be occupied; they won’t need me anymore. I’ll let myself go. I’ll get fat and my hair, gray and snarled, will dangle down my back like a bunch of snakes. There will be stacks of unread newspapers and magazines piled precariously all over the house; one sneeze and I’ll get buried under an avalanche of dusty newsprint.
    
Gaby shuffles to the table, dragging her feet as if she’s headed for the gallows. She slumps in her chair and begins to cry.
    
“Mom,” Rochelle complains, “make her stop.”

I ignore her. “What do you want for breakfast, Sweet Pea?” I ask Gaby.
    
She sobs harder. “I don’t want to go to school.”
    
I sigh. “I know. But that’s what you do on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and today’s Thursday.”
    
She looks up at me with tear-stained cheeks. “Where’s Daddy?”
    
I know what this is. The classic you-didn’t-give-me-what-I-want-so-I’ll-go-to-the-other-parent. She’s hoping he’ll say she doesn’t have to go.
    
“At work.”
    
Her face falls and she cries harder.

Rochelle rolls her eyes. “If you stop crying I’ll give you a Kit Kat®,” she offers.
   
“Rochelle!” I warn.
    
“Fine! I’m going to brush my teeth!” she calls, already halfway up the stairs.
   
 “Me, too!” Gaby yells, running out of the kitchen. I’m left alone, looking at bowls of uneaten cereal and half empty juice cups.

At school, Gaby screams “Mommy don’t leave me!” It’s like her heart is breaking in two. For a second I contemplate running out of the room with her in my arms. She and I will spend every day together at the playground, the library, or at music class where we’ll shake oversized tambourines until our heads ache.
   
But no. Gaby needs to be around other 3-year-olds. She needs to start following some rules other than Mommy’s. She needs to know that there are other likeable adults.
   
I hurry away before I change my mind.

“Mom, did you know that the word ‘kindergarten’ is actually German?” Rochelle asks.

 I press the window button. The glass descends and a blast of cool air hits me in the face.
    
“Too cold!” Gaby yells from the backseat.
   
“That’s interesting,” I tell Rochelle. We pull up to Rochelle’s school. She begins zipping up her backpack.
   
“Is there anything you want to say to Gaby?” I prompt.
    
“Have a good time at school!” Rochelle says, kissing Gaby on the cheek. “You’ll have fun. Preschool is fun. Play, play, play. Enjoy it now because when you get to fourth grade it’s all-day drudgery and homework coming out of your ears.” She hops out of the car. “Guten morgen!” she calls over her shoulder.

Disentangling Gaby’s arms from around my waist makes me feel evil and mean. Gaby cries steadily. The teacher, a pony-tailed young woman who looks 13, approaches.

“Don’t worry, it’s normal,” she says, picking up Gaby. Feeling like an unfit parent is normal? I wonder. Then I realize she’s talking about Gaby’s crying. Oh, OK. I nod. But I look around the room. There are kids building with blocks, playing with Legos®, waving giant plastic dinosaurs above their heads. None of them are crying. In fact they all look happy. They all look like they’ve just eaten the best cupcake that they’ve ever had.
    
I sigh. Maybe Gaby’s just not ready. Maybe she needs more time at home with me for a while. As I’m standing there feeling awful I sense the teacher’s hand on my back, pushing. She’s actually shoving me out the door! I’m so surprised I give a little ridiculous wave and walk away briskly.
    
When I get to my car I realize that I’ve just been thrown out of my daughter’s preschool. My crime? Lingering. I don’t know whether to cry or throw my head back and laugh. I settle for scooting quickly into the driver’s seat and steering away.

I get a call from Gaby’s teacher. There’s a message on the answering machine. Could I come to school 15 minutes before pickup time for a talk? Oh, no. Instantly a huge lump sticks in my throat, making it hard for me to swallow. They think she’s not ready for school – too much sobbing – they can’t believe I even considered it. What else could it be? I wonder over and over as I drive, my hands sweating on the steering wheel.
    
The pony-tailed teacher ushers me into the head office. I wonder who’s watching her class, but I don’t ask.

“So, Gaby told a story I thought you should know about, and also I was wondering how you’re adjusting.”
    
I am taken aback. How I’m adjusting? “What…what story?” I ask.
    
The teacher smoothes her ponytail. “Well, she said she was sitting on the roof of the porch and she fell off. Of course I thought she was telling a tall tale – they all do – because she doesn’t have a broken leg or anything.” She leans back in her chair and blinks rapidly. “Then she said that you weren’t there, and she was sad. But that then you came and picked her up and kissed her and she was all better.”
    
Tears fill my eyes. I am so relieved that my child still has faith in me. Without realizing it, I start to cry.

Ponytail reaches across the table to hand me a tissue. “It’s totally normal for parents to have an adjustment period,” she says. “I’m setting up meetings with all the parents to find out how everyone’s doing with it,” she goes on.
    
She hands me a flyer as I stand to leave. “The director is having a parent workshop titled ‘Breaking Away.’ It’s all about the transition to preschool. You should think about it.”
    
I nod. I just might.

That night the three of us stand silently watching for the bird. My arms are around both my girls. I’m holding them close. Sure enough the tiny wren appears and takes its spot. Gaby smiles, secure in the knowledge that its mommy is right around the corner.

Before having kids, Za Flores lived in New York City, Los Angeles and Boston. She's been previously published in several literary journals. Now she's a stay-at-home mom, wife, and servant to two spoiled cats. A perfect day for Za would be spending time with her two daughters and her husband while snacking from a huge bowl of Godiva chocolates.

---

Previous page

Back to Table of Contents

Next page