This afternoon Reese and I headed to her elementary school to meet her teacher for the upcoming year. She's nervous about starting first grade. As we walked along the sidewalk, I took her hand into my own as a gentle reminder that I was near.
"Mom, I'm scared," she admitted. "I think I might faint."
I glanced down at her.
"What does faint mean, anyway?" she continued.
"It means that you get weak and fall onto the floor," I answered, wondering how she managed to use the word correctly in context without knowing its meaning. I squeezed her hand in reassurance. "You're going to be just fine, kiddo."
Once inside, we greeted her new teacher, explored the classroom, and said hello to her classmates. Then Reese tugged on my arm and pointed out the window.
The place where she breezes across monkey bars, scales the spider climber, and dangles from the chin-up bar. Out of all the places in the school, I think it's where she feels most comfortable.
Despite the drizzly day, we headed there immediately. Her nervousness dissipated as she climbed and ran, and for those few moments, I don't think the prospect of starting first grade daunted her. Fainting was no longer an option.
If she can scale those monkey bars, she's going to be just fine scaling the challenges of first grade.