This week saw the start of a new era in our lives. My giant baby, the second born, my humungous bundle of joy started preschool.CONTINUE READING →
He will be going for 2 whole mornings a week. A grand total of 6 hours a week at the same preschool as his brother, in the care of a wonderful team of women who I know love him already.
As he toddled in, aged 2 years and 3 weeks, (and 3 months younger than his big brother when he started) I noticed so many differences to my first experience of a child's first day.
My overriding feeling of taking the eldest to preschool all those months ago was worry. The sort of panicky, tight-chested, neurotic worries that only a first time mum can know. They followed me around all day like wasps around an ice cream. Bzzz What if he's sad/cold/tired/hungry/needs a cuddle? Bzzz Am I breaking his trust in me sending him to a bunch of strangers? Bzz Will they tell him that boys don't cry? Will another kid push him? If they did would he tell a grown up? BZZZ Will they open his yoghurt for him? Would he ask them to if they forgot? BZZ BZZ BZZ WHAT IF HE GETS SAND IN HIS SHOES?!!?!