Today, my little guy started preschool...and I wept uncontrollably into my pillow all night leading up to it. He's doing two days a week, 2 1/2 hours each day of preschool at a co-op called Jack and Jill. This is a decision with which I wrestled for months and still am wrestling...this decision and I are in a half nelson right now and we're all sweaty and gross and people are all, "just pin her, already."
Here's the inner monologue that has been running in my head about this decision:
He's just three, why send him now? Yes, but it would be great exposure to some structure and instruction from someone other than the T.V. I know, but he's going to be going to school his whole life...just wait a year. True, but it's just two days a week, 2 1/2 hours each day. What if he hates it and cries and writes about it in his journal so that he can tell his future therapist the exact date when his mother let him down and he lost his ability to trust. Okay, what if you did a co-op...you know something with which you could be involved. Hmmm...maybe. I don't know. What if...
So, I made the decision to enroll him in a co-op where the teacher is so incredibly wonderful that I'm sure even her farts smell like lavender and heaven. (I hope she never reads this.) His teacher was placed on this earth to teach little 3 and 4 year olds. I love her and will include her in my will.
He missed his first day, because he was sick (the first time he's been sick since March, but whatever). So, today was the day. And he loved it! He turned off the t.v. of his own volition so we could go. TURNED.IT.OFF.HIMSELF!!! And then it rained skittles.
We'll see how it goes. That's my motto right now. If today was any indication, I'm sure he'll be fine.