The late morning sleep had to be interrupted abruptly. The languid heads had to be wrapped around heady mornings. Mornings like these I had known not too long ago. A time when I would start the day by throwing a Kurti in the direction of the iron board, with the assurance that an angel would descend, and miraculously iron out its creases. Fortunately the angel in the form of a husband never failed me in this mission to reach office in impeccable time. But things are not the same anymore. Now it’s not just about me, or him. It is about our girl. Lately, everything is about this tiny human that rules our lives. And this is about her first morning of ‘rushing to’ her very first school. The first step to learning while playing - a play-school, as they call it. If the first day speaks of the fate of this adventure called play school, then I am certain there will never be a ‘going to’ school. They will always be accompanied by whizzing heads and murmured cursing, yelling instructions and loving caresses, some sobbing, and eventually, ‘rushing to’ school. Mornings, from here on, would look like thus - tossing on the bed while resolutely ignoring the shrieks of the alarm clock, then jumping out of bed while coaxing the kid to wake up, pleading to brush her tiny set of teeth, force some food down her throat, forced dressing, forced hair, forced everything, and finally, strapping her to the car seat, and bidding bye while trying to fathom where did all the time fly! This, in short, is how my mornings are going to look like from now on. We have umpteen references of such mornings in the films we watch, the soaps we are hooked to, of haggard, over-worked mothers, who would finally catch a breath when the entire household is packed and sent off. I had waited for my turn too. Of few hours to myself. Of not having to respond to the innumerable questions of a curious toddler in barely discernible language. And then getting yelled at, if I slack even once! Don’t get me wrong. I am as troubled and concerned like any other parent to allow a piece of my heart step into this uncertain world. But one has to let go, doesn’t one? The famous refrain about cutting the umbilical cord and be okay with it. Of dropping the over-protective shield we subconsciously build around our kids and letting them face the world. Of allowing them the space they deserve so they can blossom into the person they are dying to be. All this sound so fantastic in theory. Books and news feed on my phone have made a habit of sneaking these nuggets into my head over the last few days as an attempt to prep me for the emotional upheaval that lingered ahead of me. They even managed to fool me to believe that I was prepared for it.
My girl turned 2 and a half last month. And even though we are not exactly great sticklers for milestones, her restlessness and boredom at home told us it was time we sent her off to a play-school. The daycare/play-school at husband’s office was a no-brainer, it meant pick up and drop was going to be a breeze. And more importantly, they had a spot ready for her, which could normally be the first hurdle to overcome, and everything seemed rosy thus far, and things fell in place perfectly. We went ahead and made that important call to the person concerned, and were asked to come in for a ‘meeting’ on a certain day. We agreed to a certain time of the day, and reached the venue with the pupil, and were rather pleased to explore the school that sprawled infront of us. The silly little two to three years olds were bouncing about goofily in the classrooms, and the perky colorful room filled with well-thought-out playthings kept them busy. I imagined my girl in this small class of five to ten people and the prospects it held for her. And I beamed to see her excitement just to be in the corridors of what was going to be her first school ever! Which we would be talking a lot about in the future to her embarrassment. The school explained to us the system, the rules, briefed us on their security, and assured that the transition from home to school will be a smooth one. We signed forms, shook hands, and left the school premises promising we will start school the following week. Waiting for the first day of my girl’s school was undoubtedly the most amount of anticipation I had experienced in recent time.
We were still a week away from the terrifying ‘first day’. While the kid was blissfully ignorant of what is coming her way, I, on the other hand, would feel a slight twitch in my tummy every time I would think about it. With each passing day, I would pray for a ‘smooth first day.’ The irony of the phrase was not lost on me, but I was a grieving mother, who secretly struggled with ‘letting go.’ Asking questions such as - is it tad early, can I stretch it for few more months, will she cope, will she get used to the food, and so on and so forth. But never wound I ever let it show. I would mask it with a ‘she has to get used to it.’ Or was it me I was referring to? But the father was worried no less, and it was reassuring to see that we were both on the same page. Only till the kid would start acting up, and we would slump our favorite line at her, ‘just few more days honey, then show this attitude to Miss Micky.’ And even as we would say this, our smiles wouldn’t match our thoughts.
And then just two days ahead of the day, the kid smells danger, and decides to cough so hard that she would throw up everything she had eaten towards night when it would get more intense. It was as though God had heard my unspoken wish. He could tell I needed more time. We decided as responsible parents that we cannot send an infected kid to school. Phone call was made to inform them about it, and I heaved a sigh of relief. The delay - an extended holiday for the three of us. My days of tender afternoons with my girl were now counted. I asked myself what was I going to miss the most about this time. The answer lied in the numerous moments of inexplicable love she would shower on me when I least expect it - ‘I love you mommy’ at the drop of a hat, ‘aww u r so cute mommy’( in a phony way she picked up from youtube videos), and the hugging and the mischiefs, and the singing and the dancing. Sheer bliss! And then the monstrous yells when things wouldn’t fall in place, quite literally. When she would fail to stack up colorful rings systematically, or something she was building with blocks, would come knocking down.
After few bumpy days, and a lot of emotional prep, we finally begun school on a Tuesday. But unlike last time, I was at a much better place emotionally. What’s the worse that could happen? She would refuse to let go off me and howl and cry and create a scene and that might be a recurring thing for the next few days and then finally, one fine day, just like that, she would look into my eye, and bid bye willingly. I toughened my heart, and swallowed the tears that was welling up my eyes.
When we entered the classroom, within seconds, our little girl to our utter surprise, forgot about us, and ran to explore her classroom. She made it seem so easy, like a veteran, embracing the rite of passage with utmost ease. And we were immensely relieved, and we fled, sneaked out as quietly as we could when she was not looking, not because we didn’t know better, but that was the best we could do when things were still looking rosy. Only that I hung out outside the room lest she decided to bring the roof down soon enough. And I was amazed at how well she was holding up. Soaking up the excitement of a new place. And I started typing this, not knowing how else to let this whole experience sink in, and also to while away the hours that stopped for me.
Meanwhile the husband called from Office, and I must have gasped at how well she is doing on her very first day. And hung up saying, ‘she could have at least cried a little, you know.’ He let out his ‘cannot believe you’ sigh and hung up. I stepped out of their meeting room, which was made available to me by a very cooperative staff. And I peeked into the classroom from the glass windows. She was so busy, my God! I was equal parts proud, and equal parts hurt. How smooth the transition had been. How she proved all my worries unreasonable. She had always been a people’s person. She was going to take it all so well, dad had told me. I should have known better. With such reassuring thoughts, I slowly started walking away from the door. And then, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, I heard a familiar shriek from across the walls. I turned to look what it was, and to my horror, a pair of tiny eyes had caught me peering in. She was staring right at me. And when our eyes met, she broke down in relentless tears, and kept calling my name. And my heart sank, and settled at the pit of my stomach. I could go in and hug her and say I am right here. But what would happen after that? What would happen of severing the cord? Wouldn’t she get used to having me around? Or is it futile asking such questions on the very first day? And just when I was debating it in my head, three staff ladies came to my rescue, and started making funny faces at her through the window. Miss Emily picked her in her arms, and I could hear her deep sobs and tireless cries, but she calmed down eventually. One of the teachers added as reassurance that she is even smiling now. I was back in my seat. But my heart ached. And reason gave up on me. And I had to go back and check on her again. This time more cautiously. She was still crying, more sharp and acutely, at the verge of a melt down. Her voice went hoarse calling my name, and that was it. I had to intervene. And the teachers were happy to let me in. The moment I stepped into the classroom, she ran to me and grabbed me like she would not let go off me today or ever. And it was funny how her incessant cries melted into warm smiles in seconds! I looked around and found a tiny spot to make myself comfortable in the classroom for the next two hours. I must have been a source of great curiosity and amusement for the rest of the class. Proving me right one particularly friendly kid swiftly planted a crown on my head. While another ordered me to tie his shoe laces that came off. And I felt instantly at home - the queen and the slave, all at once! Oh! motherhood! I searched for any strain of jealousy in my girl with all the attention I was showered upon. But all she cared about was to have me next to her. Soon it was time for some outdoor activities. Where the entire group march out singing ‘we are the dinosaurs marching..marching..’ And that was it. The song stuck, and she must have sung it for the rest of the day on loop. Dinosaurs being her thing lately.
At 5 pm, when the father showed up at school, she turned into an excited nut, bouncing and squealing, and eventually hid herself behind my legs while looking at him shyly. When he pulled her in his arms, she kept holding me with one hand. Just making sure. The eventual day finally came to an end. And we were heading back home quietly with a bitter sweet feeling.
Tomorrow will be another day - another fresh attempt at settling down, at making a habit of school, of being away from mummy. And who knows, the trick could very well lie in the second day. And before we know it, she would grow out of the shell. The wiggly little worm would blossom into a confident butterfly, and fly out of the comfort of the cocoon, and like nature, I would have to be okay with it. ‘We’ would have to be okay with it.
