The synchronized push-back of chairs reminds me of nails on a chalkboard. The decision’s been made, the paperwork signed, so the adults clear their throats, straighten their ties, and smooth their skirts.
My daughter’s legs dangle from her swivel seat as she sways, finishing the final strokes of the mane of a unicorn with a pink crayon. She’s humming, and nervously chewing on her own wavy strands. I push her hair back from her face, but she is intent on finishing.
“Hold on, almost got it.” This is what she’s been saying lately.
I try to hold on, but I want a study guide for the exam called parenting. I imagine bubble wrapping my daughter for her first day.
“This is for the best,” says the principal, but there are no bell curves for our choices. Parenthood feels like a series of poorly worded multiple choice questions that you hope culminate in the passing score of an adult human being. And I take a step back, give my daughter’s shoulders a squeeze as we prepare for her second first day of first grade.
A tough decision;
first grade feels like forever,
repeat to reach dreams.
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