Dear Love Bug,
It’s been a while, I know, and I apologize, as I’m letting some pretty important moments whiz past without memorializing them. I’ve been wrapped up in a freelance project and, you know, life. But I couldn’t let today slip by without writing to you about it, as it was a Biggie.
This morning Daddy dropped you off at summer camp, aka school (what we grown-ups call preschool). This preschool is pretty cool, though, in that it offers a summer camp program for toddlers that runs mid-June to mid-August, and it’s chock full of activities. We have a color-coded calendar hanging on our fridge, and every single day is marked with a special activity–from make-your-own-lunch Mondays to water day Tuesdays to field trips, karate, movies, computers, magicians, tie-dying, luaus, crab feasts, and more. When I first signed you up and was told you’d be in the 3s room with your friend A (who is precisely two months older than you; I’m guessing you’re the youngest kid in the class, since you don’t turn three until the end of August), I asked if there was a 30s room that I might be able to join. (By the way, you’ve begun to pronounce, “My birthday is the twenty-fifth of August!”)
But beyond the activities, this is the kind of environment in which you spend the day in a classroom with a teacher and a dozen other kids of approximately the same age. It really is your first foray into a school-like atmosphere. You have a cubby on a wall lined with cubbies. You have a backpack and a lunch bag with a tiny bento box inside it that we fill with tiny portions of food. You have a cot for nap time, and you’re expected to drink from a cup (without the sippy) and go potty on your own.
Needless to say, I was a nervous wreck all last night as I was prepping your things–gathering changes of clothes and bedding, carefully deciding what bite-sized foods to include in your lunch–and thinking about what if you can’t manage the potty by yourself or what if you refuse to nap? What if you start acting wild, as you have a tendency to do, and you lash out or use bad words or are destructive? What if you hate it or have anxiety and spend the whole day crying?
You, on the other hand, were cool as a cucumber. You excitedly told everyone you saw yesterday (and it was quite a few people, as we celebrated Father’s Day with Daddy’s side of your family and with Nonna and Opa) that you were going to summer camp. This morning, you did your thing, ignoring my frantic dance around the house to make sure you had everything you need. You even tolerated official first-day-of-camp-but-really-it’s-preschool photos out on the front porch in the classic Maryland June 100 percent humidity.
Daddy gave me a full report on Gchat later in the morning. Apparently, you’d clung to his leg for a second before you got to your classroom. And then you were off! After leaving your things in your cubby, you brushed past him to get into the room and start playing, and he went on his merry way. No tears. No fussing. No nothing.
When I arrived to pick you up, I stopped first at the office to sign you out. Ms. K, the director, told me that Ms. S, your teacher, had made a point to stop in to tell her that you are the sweetest child and that you integrated so well into the classroom with such little fuss that she wished all her kids were like you. I think my jaw must have hit the floor. She went on and on about what an angel you are and how easy you made things and how nicely you played. I asked if she was sure she had the right kid.
In the classroom, Ms. T, the aide, said you did beautifully. There were no tears, as she said they always expect on the first day, and to boot you had no issues with the potty (not even without a stool!), ate all your lunch, and had a great nap. You were happy to see me but weren’t in a rush to leave, and when we finally left the classroom, you wanted to give me a tour of the place. Like you own it. I asked about your favorite part of the day, and you said it was when you went up to the “wrecked” (rec) room in the afternoon (apparently the rain this afternoon kept you from going out to the playground) to play with the balls. You even got to kick a ball from the stage!
I found a shirt for you to wear today that says “HERE TO MAKE FRIENDS.” In the car, you told me, “I love your shirt, Mom!” (Huh?) So I told you I love yours. You asked me what your shirt said, so I told you. For the rest of the evening, you declared, “My shirt says I’m here to make new friends!”
I’m excited for you to develop those friendships and to gossip to me in the car on the way home about the other kids, as you did at Ms. G’s. I’m excited about all the new experiences you’ll have–a cruise in the inner harbor, a magician, a tour of Ravens stadium, building a stuffed animal, cooking your own lunch–and the way you’ll become accustomed to life in a classroom.
“School is good,” you said multiple times after we visited last week. And I truly believe you’re happy there.
Love you like crazy, kiddo,