Kindergarten stresses me out. I don’t think it is supposed to do that. But as I pull paper after crumpled paper from Lorelei’s bookbag I can feel myself wanting to shove it all under the couch and run far, far away. 100 days projects. Boxtops. A million pieces of school work. Worksheets. Books for her to read. Newsletters. Fliers for programs and meetings and groups. Snack calendars. Fundraisers. -a-thons. Drives. As my brain is trying to prioritize this, it spirals into fear that I did not remember to do that thing. Some thing. I don’t know what thing. But there’s always a thing.
Today may have broken me. I was about ten seconds from huddling in a closet and refusing to come out until other people did all of the adulting for me, leaving me with nothing to do but watch Jane the Virgin and drown my frustrations in a half-gallon of double fudge ripple.
Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in preschool anymore.
I’m not the mother I expected to be.
Because I am a negligent mother who lets other people raise her children, Lorelei is in an after school program run by our public school district. She gets help on her homework (in kindergarten, but that’s another post entirely), interacts with kids in other grades, and gets plenty of time to play. I know. Horrible, right?