Danny is graduating preschool Friday and, with the way I have been carrying on, you would think he just up and joined the Army. I’ve been crying while I jog by the school, crying driving home from work meetings, crying watching Johnson & Johnson commercials (OK, I always do that). It isn’t helping matters that he’s had a growth spurt the last week or so, his legs getting all lanky, his already sun-streaked head getting higher and higher when he leans against me. My first baby is growing up.
When I think back on how Danny has changed in the past three years, it’s staggering. When Danny first entered preschool, I had two major concerns: he was barely potty trained and he was a wanderer. I actually worried that he might roam right off school property despite the gates and all. Who knew someday they’d have to drag us both out of there.
When we started St. Paul’s, Danny had just stopped calling himself “Doobadoo.” He could barely ride a tricycle, couldn’t dress himself, and thought Caillou was cool. He had playgroups and play dates but he didn’t have friends. Drinking milk out of a big boy cup typically resulted in a major mess. He couldn’t recognize letters, let alone write his name. The most I could get out of him after school was what he had for snack, if he even remembered that. And most days, I’d have to carry my exhausted little man most of the short walk home.
Today, Danny doesn’t remember ever calling himself Doobadoo. He loves Phineas and Ferb, and leaves the room if Annie insists on “baby” shows like her favorite, Caillou. He doesn’t need playgroups; he has a pack of boys, just as sweet and crazy as he is, to call his own. He is shockingly neat—well, for him—at the dinner table (or maybe anyone would seem that way next to Annie). He wants to write things, wants to document his life for himself. He tells me all about his day and brings me gifts, everything from necklaces to potato bugs to Halloween cards in May. He rides bikes, scooters and soars across the monkey bars like nothing at all. When he runs, sometimes I almost can’t catch him.
Other things have remained the same. His hair is still soft and sweet as a baby’s. He still comes home from school tired and needing a rest. His pants still inexplicably slide down no matter how tight I make the side buttons. When something goes wrong or he falls, he still wants his mama. Sometimes he will even let me carry him up the stairs. And he still loves to lie in the grass and dream.
Most of all, to Danny, the world is still one amazing, beautiful adventure. He is filled with joy. He doesn’t know bad words (or if he does, doesn’t let on to me), he doesn’t even know what a cigarette is called (he thinks it is a “smoker”). He thinks that he can just as easily play pro baseball, be a firefighter or travel to the moon when he grows up. Whatever he chooses, he can be. He believes that magic can happen and that Santa really watches you all year round. He teases his sister for loving fairies so much, but he definitely believes in the one that comes for your teeth. He is kind to everyone and expects only kindness in return. And this is thanks to preschool.
Being a part of a co-op preschool is the most amazing gift I could ever have given Danny or myself. It was really tough to pull off as a working parent—and a situation that most working parents don’t even have the option to consider, so I am so glad the stars somehow aligned for me. Because being at the school with him, watching him play and grow, watching him build friendships and build confidence, there was nothing like it. I got to see first-hand Danny’s transformation from a shy little guy to a boy who has compassion for others and excitement for whatever comes his way next.
I got to watch friendships grow and even personality conflicts arise and resolve. I got to snap on kids’ bike helmets and then watch from afar when they no longer needed my help. I got to paint butterflies on girls’ faces and watch them flap around the school. I got to laugh as a crowd of boys replicated Ducky’s Car Wash, washing their plastic cars while singing along to “Life is a Highway.” I was trusted to hold little girls’ bags of treasures, kids’ jackets, their turn for the swing. And I got to hear about Danny from his friends and to truly know his friends. I even know that one little girl named her teddy bear for Danny.
Working in the kitchen, I could listen to the laughter from the circle time going on next door. Cleaning up at the end of the morning, I could sneak a peek at them all in the classroom, lying on the floor, tongues hanging out in concentration as they wrote their names or painted ladybugs. I got to watch them create ski slopes out of wooden blocks, build complicated alien invasion games out of a few costumes and some microphones.
I got to witness teachers’ boundless energy, talent and kindnesses. And I got to see how their generosity of spirit, their ability to find beauty in a crumpled leaf, taught our children how to be better people. I got to supervise the somewhat covered sandbox on a rainy day and watch as one sweet boy stood guard with his umbrella, walking kids to and from the classroom to the sandbox, moving slowly and steadily through the pouring rain.
I am filled with such gratitude for these years that I can’t even imagine saying goodbye. Although I am lucky enough to be starting this journey all over again with Annie next year, I’ll still always look for Danny and his buddies at this special place, always remember their laughter, even their tears. Their shadows will loom large for me here. A part of them will live on. And for this great gift, I will always be grateful.
And now I need another Kleenex.
