I knew I was in trouble when my son started hinting that I should go two minutes after I dropped him off.
We were in the gym with the other kids, waiting for the start-of-school bell to ring. I wanted to hang out and make sure he could find his room. Plus, he couldn't possibly carry everything, even if he thought he could.
My eldest was already with her friends at the fifth-grade table. Her best friends said "Hi" to my son, then promptly told him to leave them be. He actually seemed okay with that.
The morning prayer and Pledge of Alliegance said (Hey, I still know all the words. Go me.), we followed the crowd up the steps.
"Mom, go," he says, grabbing for his nap mat as we are in the middle of the melee on the landing.
"No, I can help you carry this, at least," says me.
"I can do it," he says.
"I'll leave as soon as you get to your room," says me.
We walk down the hall, turn into his room, and he's grabbing the mat away from me. I hold on, ask his teacher where she'd like it. Son is practically shoving me out the door.
I make an attempt at a kiss, which he rebuffs. So, out the door I go. Truly, I held in the tears until I was in my car.
Two days in:
Son loves K4. (It's a meld of preschool and kindergarten, with Montessori thrown in). He already has a "very good listener" note from his teacher. If you know him, you know that is a huge deal, because listening is not his strong suit with us.
Eldest's class is practically all girls. In first grade, they had a huge class with a good gender mix. For second and third grade, they stayed in the same room, because it was the only classroom that could hold them all. Now, they are down to four boys and 12 girls. Those poor four boys. Outnumbered 3-to-1, in fifth grade, the year of female hormones starting to hit.