The End of the Beginning

This morning I took Molly to daycare, and left her there, for the first time. I won't pretend I wasn't emotional. In fact, I moped for the majority of the night last night and even shed a few tears. This morning I just kept looking at her, feeling like I do when we try to trick Potter into not realizing when we're leaving on a trip and not taking him. It didn't help that she was especially cute this morning, sleeping until a decent hour and waking up all adorable and smiley and charming, as is her way. I just wanted to hold her and squeeze her and smother her in kisses. But instead I tried to act as normal as possible (like we do when tricking Potter) so as not to tip her off that something was up.

My mood was not helped by the fact that I realized I had forgotten her bottles and food until I was about two blocks away from the daycare. Crapface. I decided to go ahead and drop her off, go home, and pick up what I'd left and bring it back (I would be able to give everything to the front desk, so Molly wouldn't have to see me if she were dealing with some separation anxiety). An easy fix, but it just made everything seem so much worse.

When we got to daycare, Molly put on quite a show for the ladies at the front desk. She smiled and cooed and giggled for them like it was the best day for her life. I was glad she was in a mood, but it only made me more sad that I would miss those smiles and coos and giggles.

We got to her classroom and all was calm. One of her teachers took her while I explained her routine to her primary teacher (each baby has a teacher assigned to them who is officially in charge of him or her, though anyone can and will take care of and play with her). She sat on Miss Dawn's lap and played with a toy while watching the babies around her. She looked timid, not scared but not quite comfortable. I decided to sneak out, not wanting her to realize I was leaving and potentially trigger an outburst of tears and wailing. But the not saying good-bye made it so much worse on me.

Luckily, the daycare's parent breakfast (which they provide every morning) was a monkey bread-type pastry this morning, so I did perk up for a bit.

I drove home, picked up her things, and took them back, resisting all of the urges that told me to just peek in on her. As much as I wanted to know that she was doing well, I knew the possibility of her having a hard time adjusting would be too hard on me to risk it. Ignorance was bliss.

So I left. And I felt...sad. Not depressed, like I expected to. I didn't cry. I ran some errands and came home to get some things done around the house. I didn't feel like I had abandoned her, and I wasn't filled with worry that she was miserable. I trust the women who are watching her, so I know she's in good hands. But everything just felt so quiet and empty. My car was quiet. The house was empty. I felt quiet and empty.

The quiet forced me to think and to try to understand why it is that I'm taking Molly's transition to daycare so badly. I love her daycare, so that's not it. I know I need to get work done, so that's not it.

Then, inexplicably, I started to think about the semester in college I spent studying abroad. For four months I lived in Cambridge, England. I went there without knowing anyone on my trip, and yet it was four of the happiest months of my life. But even while I was there, I knew that my excessive happiness was temporary. Of course it had a lot to do with the fantastic friends I made there, the globe-trotting I was able to do, and the simple fact that I was living in a foreign country. But I also felt indescribably free. I very rarely worried while I was there. I had saved money to take with me, and I knew that what I had was what I had. I closely recorded everything I spent to keep up with my finances, but I never panicked about money. I budgeted, yes, but I also let myself spend what I had taken with me. I felt completely untethered. Aside from classes (which only took place in the mornings Monday through Thursday to allow us ample traveling time), I had no requirements,

no one telling me what to do or where to go. It was amazing. But I knew all along that part of what made the trip so wonderful was that I would never have an experience like it again. Never again in my life would there be four months without bills and appointments and responsibilities. And that's part of what made it so wonderful.

These past 6 months with Molly have been somewhat like that, a moment in time I'll never have again. There will never be such a large chunk of time in which I can simply be with Molly. Even if I don't teach in the summer, we will probably leave her in daycare part-time to keep her spot and to allow me time to research and write. And before I know it, she'll be in preschool and kindergarten and then real school. Those are all wonderful things, of course. But this day, this first day of daycare, is the beginning of all of that. And it is the end of this glorious time of just me and Molly.

Molly being in daycare is not a bad thing; I know that. It will give her wonderful opportunities that I couldn't give her (they offer Spanish classes starting at 2!). It's the beginning of something wonderful. But that means that it's also the end of something, something that has been the most wonderful experience of my life.

And that end makes me sad.

But I can look forward to the beginnings, too.