Today is my daughter’s first full day at preschool, the whole six hours. I’ve sobbed. Pathetic, eh? She’s suddenly suffering separation anxiety when I leave her there. There’s not a fibre of my being that finds it ok to walk away when she’s crying her eyes out for Mummy to stay. It has to happen, I know, but I’d like to keep her small forever. Next year, she’ll be starting school, five whole days of each week when I won’t be there. I won’t see her do things for the first time, scoop her up to kiss her knees better,
nag encourage her to stop playing for long enough to eat her lunch.
I know that she was fine just minutes after I left, sitting happily on the knee of her “Aunty”. The cord may have been cut three years ago but, as her mother, I feel a deep physical pain within when she is sad or when she’s away from me. I guess that will never get easier, will it? This ache, this sick feeling.
It was the same for my own Mum, when she left me on my first day in the university halls of residence. When she left me at the airport to fly solo to the USA on an exchange trip. Every time she had to mend my broken heart. When she helped to arrange my dress on my wedding day. Each time she leaves me, now living 400 miles from her.
This is something that I’ll have to get used to. Get a grip. Man up. Build a bridge and get over it. I know.
But being a mummy is being the largest Russian doll. Only truly complete when the little replica dolls are close by, fitted perfectly within.
*apologies for the title of this post, I do hope you haven’t now got that song in your head all day.