My head is on a swivel. I know, you’re thinking ‘ok, yeah, and what mother’s head isn’t,’ right? I guess I am just starting to feel the effects now of just how exhausting it can be.
Nearly every vehicle pulling into Alexandra’s preschool is an SUV or minivan. For nearly 20 minutes at arrival and dismissal you can see the fleet of hig-off-the-ground cars pulling in and backing up one after the other, and in many cases in unison. The parking lot happens to be adjacent to the lovely playground that sports two exit/entry ways, a peeve of mine for sure.
The rules at her school are that children must be escorted by parents and caregivers into school, but brought out by teachers to waiting caregivers and parents at dismissal. I have to say, I like the latter a lot because I can park next to the sidewalk, hop out of the car and collect my waiting child.
I try to get to school early so that she and Annika can play on the playground before school starts-- considering I have to get Annika out of the car anyway and why not save myself the screaming fit which is to come if I don’t allow the baby to stretch her legs instead of tossing her in and out of the car like a bag of sand. The benefit to arriving early also is that there are three times fewer people than at dismissal and the same goes for the lesser activity in the parking lot. The luxury of arriving early doesn’t always bode well with me, so i am now faced with having to allow them playtime at dismissal.
This means I am dodging book bags that are strewn about on the playground floor, trading pleasantries with the other moms whom I just know are judging me already because not only do I appear totally frazzled in my attempt to locate both girls, but also that someone else does drop off and pick up on most days, and trying to keep an eye on Annika hoping she doesn’t get walloped in the head by someone swinging, or fall off one of the many playground structures; and Alexandra who is typically on the other end of the playground intertwined with about four dozen other kids the same height. This coupled with the barrage of cars pulling in and out like soldiers going off to war.
Today was one of the days I did manage to get there early. Both of the girls had the chance to play for a few minutes: Alexandra on the swing and Annika in one of the wooden structures. Suddenly the doors pop open and the children begin filing into school. Within the split second it took me to bend down and lift Annika, the eight or so kids and their parents have disappeared. When I turn to find Alexandra, she’s gone. All that’s left is her blue Ariel backpack and an empty yellow swing moving back and forth like a scene from a horror movie. When I call for her there is no response. So my thought is that she’s filed in after the rest of the crew. When I go to her classroom, there is no Alexandra! Where is she? Luckily my friend Usha is there to grab Annika and I dart out the door in my search. There she is on the playground--alone, unfazed that she’s shaved 10 years from my life.
This has proven to be too much for me. Starting today, playtime after school is over. I just can’t handle it. I am in a constant state of panic anytime I have to take my eyes off one of the girls for just a second. I know I should give Alexandra more credit because she’s nearly four already, but I would be a complete hypocrite if I said she’ll be fine. I have quoted to many and most that “there is no room for error in a child’s life” and I take that as gospel. I can’t rely on my good teachings or better intentions to believe that she’ll do what I expected of her. She’s still too young in my opinion and I have to do what is right for us all. That’s the role of a parent, right?
I don’t know how other mother’s do it. God bless those of you who manage but I have discovered my limitations one by one, and this happens to be one.
I know that this phase too shall pass and soon things will get easier, but I need all of us here to witness that. So I am doing everything that I can to ensure the safety of my children and continue to live by my motto sited above because after all in my opinion, there is no room for error in a child’s life.
Nearly every vehicle pulling into Alexandra’s preschool is an SUV or minivan. For nearly 20 minutes at arrival and dismissal you can see the fleet of hig-off-the-ground cars pulling in and backing up one after the other, and in many cases in unison. The parking lot happens to be adjacent to the lovely playground that sports two exit/entry ways, a peeve of mine for sure.
The rules at her school are that children must be escorted by parents and caregivers into school, but brought out by teachers to waiting caregivers and parents at dismissal. I have to say, I like the latter a lot because I can park next to the sidewalk, hop out of the car and collect my waiting child.
I try to get to school early so that she and Annika can play on the playground before school starts-- considering I have to get Annika out of the car anyway and why not save myself the screaming fit which is to come if I don’t allow the baby to stretch her legs instead of tossing her in and out of the car like a bag of sand. The benefit to arriving early also is that there are three times fewer people than at dismissal and the same goes for the lesser activity in the parking lot. The luxury of arriving early doesn’t always bode well with me, so i am now faced with having to allow them playtime at dismissal.
This means I am dodging book bags that are strewn about on the playground floor, trading pleasantries with the other moms whom I just know are judging me already because not only do I appear totally frazzled in my attempt to locate both girls, but also that someone else does drop off and pick up on most days, and trying to keep an eye on Annika hoping she doesn’t get walloped in the head by someone swinging, or fall off one of the many playground structures; and Alexandra who is typically on the other end of the playground intertwined with about four dozen other kids the same height. This coupled with the barrage of cars pulling in and out like soldiers going off to war.
Today was one of the days I did manage to get there early. Both of the girls had the chance to play for a few minutes: Alexandra on the swing and Annika in one of the wooden structures. Suddenly the doors pop open and the children begin filing into school. Within the split second it took me to bend down and lift Annika, the eight or so kids and their parents have disappeared. When I turn to find Alexandra, she’s gone. All that’s left is her blue Ariel backpack and an empty yellow swing moving back and forth like a scene from a horror movie. When I call for her there is no response. So my thought is that she’s filed in after the rest of the crew. When I go to her classroom, there is no Alexandra! Where is she? Luckily my friend Usha is there to grab Annika and I dart out the door in my search. There she is on the playground--alone, unfazed that she’s shaved 10 years from my life.
This has proven to be too much for me. Starting today, playtime after school is over. I just can’t handle it. I am in a constant state of panic anytime I have to take my eyes off one of the girls for just a second. I know I should give Alexandra more credit because she’s nearly four already, but I would be a complete hypocrite if I said she’ll be fine. I have quoted to many and most that “there is no room for error in a child’s life” and I take that as gospel. I can’t rely on my good teachings or better intentions to believe that she’ll do what I expected of her. She’s still too young in my opinion and I have to do what is right for us all. That’s the role of a parent, right?
I don’t know how other mother’s do it. God bless those of you who manage but I have discovered my limitations one by one, and this happens to be one.
I know that this phase too shall pass and soon things will get easier, but I need all of us here to witness that. So I am doing everything that I can to ensure the safety of my children and continue to live by my motto sited above because after all in my opinion, there is no room for error in a child’s life.
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