Preschool Woes

Life continues on, as it does. I’m writing this from a public library, that great institution of free books and free Wifi and the long line up to the bathroom.

Halfway through January, Junia had her start into preschool and it was going so swimmingly it was unbelievable, truly. A week or two into it, she was down to two minutes of crying at the door and the rest of the day enjoying lunch and going down the slide and napping like the champ we know her to be. My little preschool super star! I was already mentally queuing up coffee and bubble tea dates.

Alas, it was not to be believed. She had caught that small bug that seemed extremely minor—a little warm, a little groggy, a little fussy—and so she missed a few days. I’ve always thought of her as being very robust, but you know, she’s still just a little Ewok. What could be the harm of missing a few days?

The harm: she has been disastrous upon her return. Hurricane tears non-stop. I think every parent can recognize the unique cry of their child, and mine has this open-mouthed lung-wail where you can actually see the uvula throbbing in the back, like those babies in anime. It’s a very intense uvula. According to Jon, with whom she has also been a little fussy since her Very Serious Illness, this disease has caused irreparable personality change to her.

The preschool had to call me to pick her up because she was so inconsolable. I’ve been telling other parents about this setback and they’ve been trying to encourage me with platitudes of “it will take time” and/or “every child is different.” Someone told me their son was saved from preschool by Covid, when the preschools had to shut down and their son could just stay at home all day with them. In another group conversation, someone was talking about how antidepressants have made such a big difference in her life and then she gave me a particularly knowing look, that chin-out-nodding-eyebrows-high, just shy of actually winking at me, and I laughed maniacally, which probably didn’t help my cause or mental state. Jon has suggested we could start her again in September, which would have the additional benefit of cutting down on childcare fees.

And so now here I am, at the library, back to our original schedule of two-hour days, so we can adjust her (again) to the world of multi-coloured blocks and small sinks and circle time, the Spotify universe sending me tiny messages of hope. The preschool has this communication app where they send you photos and details on how your kids are doing, and each ping is a panic attack. I’m fine, we’re fine, it’s all going to be alright. Thank you for this week’s lunch menu.

Here she is at a community centre, after being rescued by me, petting a plastic dog with the love she herself needs. “Boop, boop. I will never abandon you, Spot. That would be ghastly and heartless. Except in five minutes we have to go home for a snack, and I’m pretty sure you have to stay here. The nice Filipino lady who runs this joint will probably have to sanitize you, too.”