Preschool Dropoff

I tell him I’ll miss him. I don’t see him as much as I’d like since he started going to preschool all day.

He spends his day with adults I rarely talk to and kids I’ve barely met. I haven’t set foot inside his school since our initial tour of it. Parents are not allowed beyond the entrance door on school days. Something to do with safety or COVID I think.

I make sure to pack his Batman, or Spiderman, or Darth Vader figurine in his small backpack, even though his teachers don’t like toys brought from home. We don’t tell Mom either. It can be our little secret for the day.

Each morning teachers in protective masks call out the names of children with a microphone as they approach a long narrow path leading to the school entrance.

“Hi Mia!”
“Welcome David!”
“Look who it is, it’s Sam!”

I think it’s overkill, but it seems to make the children happy since they typically jump or smile big when they hear their name. The teachers are friendly but are tired with their hair and clothes and face slightly disheveled no matter how they attempt to hide it.

I need to get him unbuckled fast from his car seat as soon as we arrive or he gets upset, desperate to catch up with his friends already in line. I’m trying to help him grow in patience, but I’m not doing a good job.

I try and coach him to say “hello” or “thank you” when he walks by, but he almost never responds to their greetings, distracted by other kids. It embarrasses me, but I pretend to not notice in front of the other parents.

A large dry erase board out front of the entrance with a fun fact about an animal or local sports team or something interesting happening that day is my only artifact of his world. It’s probably more for the parents or older kids anyway. Today’s fact explains that Hippos are unable to jump. I didn’t know that.

All the parents are in a mad rush and we barely make eye contact. Do we want to avoid each other? We come, we drop, we get back in our cars, and we drive away. I notice this one dad and his son all the time because they’re always so well dressed and playful with each other. And I appear to be making friends with another parent because our sons are friends, so we chat more, if just by accident. The conversations are becoming less awkward I guess and yesterday she gave me her number so we could setup a playdate. I still haven’t found the motivation to respond.

My wife texts me to ask how dropoff went. I do all the morning drops since she is busy with meetings. A quick response, sometimes only a word or two, and then I’m off to work with little time to discuss further. Each drop comes with its own kind of text update:

“Good!”
“He doesn’t listen to anything I say.”
“He wants to dress up like Spiderman tomorrow...”

I imagine what his classroom looks like. His cubby, his chair, his art on the wall, and toys and blocks and puzzles scattered everywhere. Or maybe it's more of an alternate universe, a place where only joy and love and beauty are allowed to exist. I hope so. I do. I struggle to not let my mind wander to other, darker things.

We start toward the school entrance door together and prepare to say goodbye. He lets me hold his soft little hand. He lets me kiss him on top of his head. He tells me that is where he prefers I kiss him and he bows his head in my direction. It always surprises me how soft his hair feels.

I try to hug him and arrange his backpack as we walk, but he doesn’t stop moving forward and rarely walks in a straight line. It worries me that he doesn’t want to wear his jacket, even though it’s cold today. He roams over to a set of bushes on the left side of the path. I let him go, but watch him close so he doesn’t get hurt. Other parents might think it’s odd that he zigzags all around, but I think it’s endearing.

He sees his friends and calls them out no matter how far away. The other day he waited for one of them in the wet grass and they walked together side by side into the school together in almost perfect unison. They chatted about something I couldn’t hear, but I saw them laughing and talking all the way.

His name is called. With a shark backpack, cheese and crackers, strawberries and juice, there is no more I can do for him now. His hand no longer in mine. His heart no longer mine to protect. His needs no longer mine to provide. The world will start to do to him, what it will do to him.

After school, he eats chicken nuggets and fries for dinner. He munches and asks what my favorite animal is that is not a dinosaur. I tell him it’s the Great White Shark. I tell him it reminds me of God. I ask what his favorite is too. He leans in close and whispers it softly in my ear.