As I made breakfast this morning, I heard a shriek and huge sobs hurtle out of my son’s bedroom. I sprinted down the hall; a dust storm of oats and a thought bubble filled with swear words left behind me.  Once in his room, I grabbed him off the floor, scooped him into my arms and assessed the situation. No wounds, no missing teeth, no tell-tale signs of future hospital bills, but still-he wailed.  The new Hairy Maclary book he went to get from his room for ‘show and tell’ was on the floor next to him.

“What happened?” I asked softly, “Did you hurt yourself?”

“Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo,” he wailed.

“Ok, why are you crying?”

“I won’t tell,” he blurbered into my chest.

“Well, if you tell me, I can help.”

“Ok,” he took three gulps of air-like pauses in a Pinter play, “I don’t want to go to school all daaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!”

“What?” I stifled a laugh of combined relief and disbelief, “Why not?  You had so much fun last week.”

On his first day of preschool, he stayed for only two hours.  When I picked him up after that short amount of time, he looked at me with disdain and said, “What are you doing here?”

Preschool in Sydney coincides with daycare so I can leave him there from seven am to seven pm if I need to.  Last week, I picked him up at five.  It was a difficult day.  When three o’clock rolled around, I fought the urge to go get him.  When I finally did show up at five, he seemed disconcerted.  It was too long of a day; I kicked myself for not trusting my instincts.

“I’ll pick you up today after your preschool lesson, ok? You’ll play outside, have lunch, have your lesson and I’ll pick you up at three.  How does that sound?”

“Ok,” he sniffled, “that sounds good.”

So, guess who just ran across the street to pick him up at three and is now back at her desk at 3:15 typing this post?

Me.

I asked him if he wanted to stay on.  He was enjoying a birthday party with piggie faced cupcakes. He said, “yes.”

I asked him when he’d like me to come back and he said, “In twelve hours.”