Our day began inauspiciously, with Jemma escaping from her crib and then her room before 6:00 a.m., all efforts to talk her back in a giant FAIL. (More on this ongoing saga later. Maybe.) So Annie was awakened around 6:30 by some sisterly screaming, but she didn't mind. She bounced out of bed, asking, "Mom, when's it time to go to school?"
We had picked out her outfit the night before (something we are doing as a new routine, to make our out-the-door-by-8:00 mornings less crazy), and she chose the dress because "it's a classy one." I. Am. Sure.
I shot a few pictures on the front steps and then we joined the gang from the street as everyone made their way down the two blocks to school. And by everyone, I mean that at one point I looked around and two solid city blocks of sidewalk were chock-full of parents, kids, and strollers heading towards the school.
There were no tears from either of us as we said good-bye. I helped her hang her backpack on her hook, then pointed her toward the daily sign-in sheet for her classroom. She hugged me, kissed me, hugged and kissed Jemma, then hugged and kissed me again. She was happy, and I was happy for her. And for once, I refrained from extrapolating the moment out several weeks, months, and years, concluding with, "And then she was gone from me forever." Instead, I celebrated the sweetness of the moment and was thrilled to head to Target with just one child instead of the usual two.
My parents had sent Annie a good-luck card a day or two ago, wishing her well on her first day. When Annie got home today, we had lunch, did her "homework," and then she wanted to write a card back to tell my parents about her day. She wrote:
Dear Grandpa and Grandma,
I love school. My teacher is good. And wonderful.
Love,
Annie
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