So, we just submitted an application for preschool. As in, an application for preschool for my baby who I swore could never leave me until he was 98 years old. Be prepared for lots and lots of crying if he is actually accepted, because right now I’m in complete denial. I keep saying things like “we’ll decide when we get the letter back from the school” and “there’s no rush making a decision.” You know what that means? I’m only in the first stage of grief. I’m sure my hand will start shaking uncontrollably when I have to write the check (well, that’s an emotional AND a financial thing, because heck, preschool is apparently worth the actual cost of your firstborn child).
Look at this face. Could you send him to school? Me neither. Come on, Liam, let’s go snuggle under your Mickey quilt and watch Winnie the Pooh again. I’m sure we can keep doing this forever.
The flip side of this is that I’m actually hoping he DOES get into this school, because from everything that I can tell, it’s amazing. Liam is obsessed with musical instruments (obsessed like, he’ll give you a musical instrument the second you enter our house, instruct you how to hold it, and then proceed to conduct you in a song of his choosing) and this is a preschool based in a music conservatory. Lots of attention, lots of focus on the things he loves. What’s so hard about sending your child off somewhere new is that you don’t know if they will approach learning or communication or nurturing the same way—but I guess that’s part of the whole learning process, right?
Now I’m off to inspect Liam’s elbows. I’m seriously concerned his baby dimples are starting to disappear. WAHHHHHHHHHHH.