My little girl started kindergarten yesterday. She has been itching to be a kindergartner since her first year in preschool two years ago. I can remember her tears of frustration because the kindergarten students in her multi-age room got to attend writers’ table when she had to go to nap-time. She has always wanted to write. More than she wants to read really. She has filled many a pad of paper with line after line of scribble. When she finally managed to break her preschool teacher down last year and join the kindergarten students at writers’ table, she was so happy. It didn’t last long however. She expected to be able to write, like I do on the ‘puter, instantly and was miffed when she realized that there was work involved. She hasn’t give up though and still practices. Her Grandma Gerry, Rob’s mom, sat with her nearly every day on her last visit, helping Katy with her letters. Chip off the old block. I can remember being in the second grade and teaching myself cursive. I was always in a hurry to be older too. She is so much like me that it never fails to catch me off grade when I see faint hints of her father mixed in and drowning in my DNA.

She was a bit apprehensive when we pulled up to the school. So was I, truth be told. I wasn’t sure where to park and Rob had managed to scare me throughly with tales of traffic violations in school zones because it seems that Canadians actually enforce school zone speed limits. Once we were inside, and one of the school secretaries had escorted us to the kindergarten room, things were back on familiar ground. At least for me. Twenty years of teaching have made the rituals of the first day of school practically a reflex even if I am the parent now and not the teacher. 

The teacher was “wee” as Jordan would say. I find it interesting that so many of the teachers I have met who teach preschool and kindergarten are themselves quite short. It certainly puts the children at ease. They also have this very young sounding, sing-song voice that little ones love but could very slowly drive an adult insane. She introduced herself, got me going on the paperwork, of which there will be a steady and endless stream until the end of June, and invited Katy to roam and play with anything she took a fancy to. My cautious child spent a good amount of the next ten minutes observing and poking about. She is so like me in the way she stands back and assesses and big-toes the water before jumping in. Unlike me however, when she jumps, she is in. She has her dad’s ability to attract and make friends. It is something I have improved upon with years of trial and error practice, but I am still socially somewhat retarded by my inherent shyness. 

A tour of the building followed, and Mrs. Thompson made wonderful use of a variety of hand gestures, signing for the children many of the things she was explaining to them. She wisely took advantage of the tour to point out all the washrooms and drinking fountains and asking the children if anyone needed to make use of either or both each time. And someone always did. When we arrived at the main office, she took the little ones in to meet the vice-principal, leaving us parents to stand awkwardly in the hall to stare at each other. One of the more chatty mothers asked about start and dismissal times and was told that afternoon kindergarten began at 12:19 and ended at 3:12 to which she joked; “ What ever happened to 12:15 or 12:30.” She then proceeded to talk about her high schooler’s classes being 81-minutes in length and asked, “Who thinks this kind of thing up?” Another mother replied that it was just a way that teachers could justify their paychecks. Everyone else nodded and I bit my tongue. Not for the first time either. Just a week earlier I had listened with quiet amazement as mommies picking up their children from the child-minding at the fitness center moan about buying school supplies. One was incensed that she was expected to send a box of pencils to school with her son. “I wrote a note to the teacher saying that I was sending just five and when he was out, she should let me know and I would send 5 more.” I am glad I wasn’t that boy’s teacher. What a pain in the ass that woman must be. I have taught classes of 30 kids or more 6 times a day and can’t imagine having to keep track of the supply levels for 180 children. That, by the way, is the reason supply lists ask for boxes of pencils or reams of paper because teachers can’t keep track of every child’s supply level nor do they have spares enough of everything to give (because children of any age “take” as oppose to “borrow”) to students when they lose things or run out. 

At the end of the two hours, we all joined our kids on the alphabet carpet for a story. Katy made sure we sat in the first row. It pleases me to no end to have a child who chooses to sit up front because that is something I never had the confidence in myself to do. 

I had to hold back tears more than a few times yesterday. In part, I think, because this is a new school and I don’t know any of the people to whom I am about to entrust my child, but there was a a part of me that marveled at what a big girl she has become. Smart. Well-behaved. Inquisitive. Beautiful. And I did that. I raised her. Which is what hurts. The things that I see in her occasionally that are her father’s, well, they are there by some miracle and not  because he had an opportunity to actively shape her. I try not to let this overshadow important moments like these, but it is always there, back in the far corner of my mind.