Things I Can't Do

I had a small meltdown the other night.  As I was getting ready for bed I thought about Reese’s first day of kindergarten.  I visualized her climbing the steps to the school bus, her small face peering out at me from her window and disappearing from view as the bus pulled away.  Couple this with the fact that I had just packed away Kerrington’s newborn clothes, many of which Reese had worn five years prior.   Each fold of a tiny onesie had hammered the realization that these little girls weren’t getting any smaller.

And then I cried.

It’s just kindergarten, I reasoned.  It’s not like she’s heading to the far reaches of Mongolia with the Peace Corps for a three year stint. They’re just onesies, I reminded myself. It’s not like the baby is all that mature now that she’s a three-month-old.

But I still cried.  (In case you were wondering, crying while brushing your teeth is much harder than you might think. Messier, too. I don’t recommend it.)

We’ve been talking about school a lot in our casual conversations to help prepare Reese for what’s coming.  She and I sat on our front porch and discussed the upcoming fall, the image of her stepping onto the bus still fresh in my mind.

Reese looked thoughtful. “You know, I can do a lot of things now, but there are still some things I can’t do.”

“Like what?” I questioned.

“Well, I can’t juggle.  Or do back flips.  At least not yet.” She scratched her knee.  “And I don’t know how to balance a cat up on a stick. I think I might have to be seven or eight for that.”

Of course.

The conversation meandered onto something else entirely, as conversations do, proving that it is impossible to be overly sentimental and wistful while conversing with a five-year-old.

She’s ready for kindergarten.  All that's left is for me to be.