Mush

I am.

Tonight we attended an open house for the magnet school Grace may attend next year. I probably should write "the school she will attend next year" but that requires me to admit that she's ready. And really the issue isn't her readiness but mine.

I'm not ready. I'm not. And there's not a thing you can do or say that will make me ready.

I sound like I'm having a temper tantrum, and I am having a moment for sure. I can't help it. She's my baby. Not a day goes by that I don't marvel at her little body or wonder at her magnificent mind. I hold her in my arms, close my eyes, and will time to stop. Stop growing, stay little, stop growing, stay little, I internally repeat. Before I know it she's out of my arms and scampering off to play, and time keeps ticking by.

As we walked into the first classroom, she tightened her grip on my hand, and a voice inside me said "see, she's not ready." The voice was wrong. Within minutes my hand was empty and she was exploring the room--even introducing herself to the teacher. I was left to marvel at the space. The classrooms, all five of them, were bright and busy. The walls were covered with color and words and numbers and shapes. There were more books than Grace (or Julia) had ever seen. There were guinea pigs and fish, tents and reading nooks, blocks and easels. It was overwhelming and wonderful, and it took over an hour to extract our girls from the building (I should note that Julia had as much fun as Grace and would also like to begin Kindergarten ASAP).

As we walked back to the house, Grace's hand in mine again, I asked her what she thought about the school. She squeezed my hand and grinned one of those pure, contented childhood grins, "It was great, Mommy, really, really great." Craig looked over at me and smiled. He knows it was great too. He also knows we're going to cry like babies on her first day.

"It was really great, wasn't it" I replied and squeezed her fingers once more.

Can someone get me a hanky?