Small Desks and Big Feelings

When I first visited a nursery classroom, I had to bend down to see the world the way my son would. Everything was small - the desks, the chairs, even the coat hooks. It was all just right for him.

And yet, it felt so big to me.

He had just turned two.

Still in diapers, still clumsy with his fork, still sleeping with a pacifier in one hand.

How could he be ready for school?

The Pressure to Start Early

Where I live, early education is competitive. Waiting lists open before birth. Parents talk about "socialization" and "early development" as if every toddler is training for the Educational Olympics.

I wasn't anti-school. I believed in learning and routine. But I also believed in sitting on the couch and not knowing the days of the week.

Still, I enrolled him. Half a day, two days a week. I told myself: Just try.

The first day

It didn’t work.

He clung to my shirt as if. His cries weren’t soft whispers—they were basic. Restless.

The teacher smiled softly and said, “That’s normal.”

But leaving my crying child in a room full of strangers wasn’t normal.

I sat in the parking lot, listening through the app that lets us “check in” on classroom noise.

He was still crying.

I turned it off.

And cried too.

Adjusting together

The days that followed were rocky. Some mornings he walked in without tears. Other days he would melt in the hallway, his stuffed rabbit clutched in one hand.

But over time I saw a change.

He started talking about “Miss Rana” and “Blue Block Table.” He brought home crayon scribbles and sang songs.

And something else changed — in me.

I began to understand that it wasn’t just about him growing up.

It was about me making room for that growth.

Letting him try. Letting him fail. Letting him learn that he was okay without me.

Even if I wasn’t okay without him — not before.

The guilt we don’t name

No one talks about the guilt that parents feel when they send their child to school.

The voice in your head that whispers:

• ’’You should be with him.’’
• “You’re trading time for strangers.”
• “They grow up so fast, why so fast?”

And yet, here’s the profound truth: Giving your child the chance to grow independently is one of the most generous acts of love.

We can’t protect them forever. But we can prepare them.

Slowly. Slowly. With love.

A small victory

Three months after it started, I watched him run through the school gates without looking back.

He waved to his friend. He didn’t cry.

I almost did.

But instead, I smiled.

Because I felt something I hadn’t before:

He wasn’t leaving me.

He was taking me — my words, my hugs, my voice — with him into the world.

And that’s what school is in the early years.

Not loss but layering.

Of courage.

Of trust.

Of small beginnings of freedom.