Broomfield, CO. Mia had her first day of preschool last week. Her first day went as I expected. I wasn't there to drop her off, but when I picked her up her teacher said "it was a little tough on her". I took her back for her second day last Friday. As we made the left turn onto school property, Mia started crying in the car. The cry was pitiful and heart wrenching. It wasn't so much a cry of defiance, but rather a cry of terror.
A panicked look washed across her face as the tears streamed her cheeks. I could only watch her reaction from the rear view mirror, I felt a lump in my throat. We've been in this position before. We still go through it when I drop her off at her therapy school. I feel conflicted. Should I just home school Mia? I've never aspired to become a teacher. I've never been patient enough, and I doubt my own intellect. Who am I to teach? These are not questions that can be answered in the mere 3 minute walk from the car to the classroom. I signed her in and handed her over to her special education teacher who was waiting in the doorway. Mia let her legs go limp as her teacher supported her arms. A primal scream rose from Mia's diaphragm. I know she's in the beginning stages of a panic attack. In the past I have waited with her, hoping that we could ride it out. She has gone hours in a blind tantrum.
I think sometimes that my presence makes it worse. Rather than coming in with her, I turned around and walked back to my car. Mia was still crying when school was over. I don't know if she cried the whole time. I've been dreading today's drop off all weekend. I hate to think that my daughter is in such distress. As the car makes the left turn onto school property, she starts crying right on cue. "It's gonna be ok honey" I say into the rear view mirror. Miraculously, she calms. As we park she is still whimpering, but it's not nearly the meltdown I had anticipated. While we're waiting for the door to her classroom to open, Mia and I give each other a rapid succession of kisses. When she kisses she likes to puff up her cheeks like Flint Lockwood from Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs. The door opens, and we walk into the room. It seems that her teacher has been anticipating Mia's specific arrival.
"Hi Mia" she says. "Let's go to our schedule" They use a picture schedule much like the one Liz uses in therapy. Mia moves the first picture to the completed column. I put her backpack in a cubby, and join Mia at the miniature sized table she is sitting at. They have an activity set out for the kids. Putting pegs into holes. Mia begins on her task and I slip out the door behind her. I can only hope that she still isn't crying when I pick her up.
