I just let my screaming, sobbing child be yanked from my arms. Peeled from my body, with one teacher unwrapping her legs from my waist while another extracted my blouse from her fists, one finger at a time.
While Emma begged me not to leave, I walked out under a black sky. The sun had been shining a mere 20 minutes before, as Emma and I entered her preschool. Weather's metaphor for my morning, no?
So, after three weeks, it seems she's having problems adjusting. Sort of. When I arrive to pick her up, she barrels into my arms, proclaiming, "I had a GREAT day at preschool!" She gets excited talking about it. Granted, she can only tell us the name of one other kid and no teachers. And it takes many skillful questions to find out, say, what she had for snack. But that's normal, right?
She's had a few mornings with tears. And each time I've called, they reassure me that she's fine, usually on the playground. I just found out she's swinging as I type, no tears. But somehow, that doesn't soothe my panicked, about-to-puke stomach.
This morning's episode was partly our fault, I'll admit. Emma hurt her knee last night after a fall on the sidewalk. We cleaned up the scrape, and she seemed fine. When she woke, though, she refused to put any weight on it, crying if we tried to force her. We spent an hour figuring out if she needed X-rays at the urgent-care clinic. Minutes after we'd decided to take her in -- and made the mistake of telling her -- I talked her into a game of hopscotch. She was careful with the leg, but jumped and ran. So no need for the doctor. No need to skip school.
No need to have given her the idea that she didn't have to go, which surely sparked today's insanity.
And the thing is, I volunteered for it. It was Adam's morning to drop her off, not mine. But I wanted the extra 10 minutes with her, the points with him for being gracious.
I'll keep my mouth shut next time.