Unicorns and Backbacks

To my daughter: There are a few big moments in life - pieces that shape who we are and where we’re going. I can’t say for sure if kindergarten is one of them, but hey, I mean it’s still a big milestone. It was the year 2020 - and man what a year. That was the year the Coronavirus devastated the country - you called it the “Big Sick” which is both ridiculously adorable as well as horribly depressing. You started kindergarten wearing a mask over your gap-toothed smile and being forced to practice social distancing from the friends you were just beginning to make. I didn’t imagine your first year of school this way, but your bright eyes and skipping steps filled my heart with endless amounts of pride and joy.

My car roared to life as I turned the key, flipping my hair over my shoulder to look behind me as I backed out of the driveway. My gray backpack was leaning precariously off the back seat, threatening to spill onto the floorboards, but I didn’t have time to fix it. I was heading to my daughter’s father’s house. It was my one and only baby’s first day of school.

Not just a first day… no… her FIRST first day.

I had helped Ramona pick out her outfit almost a week before as she jabbered excitedly about the friends she’d make and the lessons she’d learn. When I arrived, she was already dressed, her hair curling just below her chin and her teeth peeking out from beneath her top lip.

Standing on the front porch, Ramona spun on the balls of her feet. She was clad in jean shorts, little rainbow hearts adorning the pockets; unicorn shoes with shiny fabric and a little, squishy horn; and a tank top with a galloping unicorn. Her dad had picked out her backpack that had, you guessed it, unicorns. She was a bit of a fan.

I insisted on taking pictures in front of the roses. It felt like a not-so-subtle symbol - the blooming of a toddler into a little girl, or something similarly sentimental.

“Like this?” Ramona asked, posing with her hip jutted to one side. I could never blame her for the sass; she got it honest, as they say.

“Perfection,” I declared, holding out my phone, trying to keep it steady, as I snapped what some might argue were far too many photos.

As we walked toward her school only a few streets away, she asked question after question: When would she leave school? When would she go back? Would she ride a bus? When would she get a snack?

“That backpack is about as big as she is,” I quipped, laughing as the pack bounced just below her butt. Her father only smirked in response, the left side of his mouth drawing up and creasing his cheek.

Two blocks later, we approached the front doors. They stood tall, guarded on both sides by thick stone columns that reached toward the sky. Kids covered the sidewalk; masks covered smiles. Two teachers shuffled by the shining doors, ushering children inside as they descended the steps of the chugging busses or appeared on the tanned concrete.

For a moment, we hovered there… waiting. Ramona was unsure, timid. She was so excited, yet her eyes were big as saucers, reflecting the sun and clouds alike. And I was holding my breath, trying to freeze the moment for only a few minutes longer.

“Do you need help?” The teacher offered, reaching out her arm welcomingly.

“Yes,” Taylor answered, taking a small step forward. “Kindergarten. Ms. Baker?”

I couldn’t see her lips, but her eyes smiled kindly.

“Of course.” She extended her arm out again, stopping an older girl. “Jamie?mCan you take this little one to Ms. Baker’s room?”

The girl named Jamie nodded. I hugged Ramona once more, wanting to squish her back to baby size if only for a few moments. And then she was gone, being eaten by the wide mouth of doors.

I took a few steps away and then stopped to glance over my shoulder. Somewhere in my brain, I imagined she’d be standing there waving. Like I was sending her off on a ship, a cruise across a billowing ocean. The tears threatened to spill then, tickling and pricking at the backs of my eyes, but I swallowed. And the urge dissipated.

Taylor and I chatted on the walk back to my car. I shared all those amazing pictures I had taken - proud mama-bear mode activated.

“It feels like she was drinking out of a bottle just a week ago,” I said, wistfully smiling at my phone.

“It’s like she was potty training a day ago,” Taylor countered.

“Weird how time works.”

“It really is.”

We said our goodbyes and I hopped in my car, planning to take a quick trip to Starbucks before returning to work at another school with much older children - their first days of kindergarten were almost a decade prior.

The road spread before me, the sun bright on the horizon. And swiftly, my vision became blurry.

It was sudden - an onset of emotion akin to a sneaking tsunami. My heart plummeted with brutal force into my stomach - a vice grip tight around the ventricles - the muscle barreled into the depths of acid in my gut.

When did she grow up? When did she become so big? When did time become the enemy? I’m not ready. I’m NOT ready.

My brain and heart screamed in unison - sure that there must be some mistake because my baby most certainly wasn’t ready for all of this…. I wasn’t ready for this.

I cried. I felt it. I let myself mourn the loss of her baby and toddler years. The two front teeth smile. The high-pitched giggles. The cuddles for hours and the kisses to boo-boos. And I vowed to enjoy the days as they came.

I thought I was ready for you to go to kindergarten. But then I realized, maybe, you never really are.