A good decision.

I guess I decided way back in April. I picked the place, got her shots done, told everyone. Even she was excited: she was going to preschool. Kindergarten here in Florida is from 7:50a.m. to 2:30p.m. It's a great idea to get them into something to prepare them for the shock of that schedule.

She survived her first day Monday. We both breathed, I thought, I can do this. Just Lillie in the mornings, pick Ruby up by 11:30. Hear about her morning spent somewhere else (eek) and get on with our lives. Accept and embrace the change, doesn't sound too hard...

Tuesday came. She walked into school and waved at a little girl facing her. The girl only stared and did not wave back. Ruby's tiny little arm slipped back into place near her book bag. Her legs peeked out under her shorts and her socks were uneven. I almost cried then. I craned my neck as I pulled away that morning, watching her walk up the concrete path past the line of 4-year olds. I asked her when she got home that day what her favorite part was. She said playing with the doll house.

That night I told Jake I just couldn't do it. I wanted her sing song voice to echo undisciplined through our home. I wanted to keep her world just that for a little longer. After a long discussion, we decided that as long as she loved it and it was enriching, we'd see it through. We went to bed. I arose early the next morning to Ruby's quiet whine at the side of my bed. Her fists were rubbing her eyes as she spoke in repetetive tones. She declared that she didn't want to go to school anymore. It was quite clear after a few minutes that this emotion was not a fleeting one. Jake and I looked at each other and flooded our home with quaint decisiveness. It was what we needed.

She would adjust fine to Kindergarten. She would learn at a good pace. She would be just fine at home with me one more year.

I didn't send her back. We stayed home that morning, called the school, teased each other while Lillie weaved inside and out of her familiar morning routine with Mom and Ruby.

We ate cereal late and got in the car around 10, on a mission to buy the most massive dollhouse that Toys R Us carried.

First Day

Grace, this time around was easier. You knew where you were going and you cinched up your belt, slung your backpack on, and took it like a first grader. Everything came into view very clearly. There was hardly a jitter as we walked into school together, as a family.
You were willing to help us feel calm and happy, and that trait alone made you seem like you were 22.
Halfway to the pavilion you didn't want us to touch you. Walk next to you, talk, yes. But no touching. And please, no more pictures.
You let me kiss you. On the lips. I know you did it just for me, too, because of that little hesitation.
You absolutely love these shoes. You think you can fly in them. You think they make you faster. And they do.
You filtered into your new classroom. You found your seat and as you did, I watched you take off your backpack, watched your shoulder blades work hard while you unpacked your supplies. Your eyes darted back and forth, taking stock of your cubby, the blackboard, the other kids. I was nervous, but you were not. I imagine that as I write this you are eating your grapes, the ones I washed and put in a ziplock bag last night at midnight while Dad and I gushed and gushed over you. It's the way we often spend our spare time.
Ruby,
You know the van with all the stickers? The van we drive everywhere? It was inside this van today that I had my final feeling about you going to preschool. I was driving the van down Lakeland Hills Boulevard, right before you pass the hospital. And my chest tightened.
It was really sudden. Like a shockwave. You were saying something about listening to "Mrs. Wilson" if she gives you instructions. And there it was, a minor anxiety attack right there in the driver's seat. How could I really let go of you? Even for a few hours each morning? I breathed through it, blinked my stinging eyes and my lungs eased up and I looked back at you, the early morning light brightening your green eyes and your chattering mouth full of expressions and expectations.
I looked over at Dad and said that there will never be anyone else like our Ruby. No one.
You then reached over and poked Lillie in the arm. The baby that was only a newborn at this time last year.
Ruby, you floor us. And I know you'll be alright. But like any other parent, I feel like I walked you to the end of the dock, dropped you into the sea, got in my car and drove back home with an insufficient, "she oughtta be alright".
Remember that we will always be waiting for you to come home so we can hear each and every set of your profound thoughts.