Today we drove you to school and put you in line with the rest of the kindergarteners in your class. There you were, in your dress and your backpack, walking up around the building and through the front door while parents and teachers clapped for you and your new classmates and friends. And there you went, off to school. Our only kid, not little at all anymore. So very big.
It was remarkable enough. It was even more remarkable that 15 minutes before that moment, you were settling into what you thought was your last day of preschool. We had realized -- just in the nick of time -- that somehow there had been a change, that your first day of school was not Wednesday but Tuesday, and rushed to get you out of Joni’s and into your school clothes and to your new school in time for the opening ceremony.
It was a sudden jolt and it was upsetting for mom and me. But you? You handled it like it was no big deal. You said goodbye to your friends at Joni’s, hustled in the door, threw on your first day of school clothes, jumped in the car and got in line on the playground like nothing at all had happened. Piece of cake.
And why should I be surprised? Every time we’ve needed you to handle something new or unexpected, you have stepped up. This has been true since you were very small and it still is. It’s a good thing to know that when life throws you a curveball, you have the capacity to roll with the changes.
I’m sitting here wondering how you’re doing right now, if you’re happy, if you’re making new friends, if everything is working out OK. You certainly seem to be in the best of hands and I have no worries. After four years of sending you off to preschool this should be second nature for both of us. But maybe you’ve noticed that sometimes your dad is prone to worrying about things, even when he has no reason.
But what really has me thinking right now is the wonder of how you have grown to this moment.
I always will remember the moment I first met you, a little wonder with a full head of hair squalling your little lungs out as soon as you emerged into our world. I’ve watched you grow and marveled at how you’ve learned to master just about anything you set your mind to. Feeding yourself, dressing yourself, learning to talk and to walk, using the potty, riding a bike, drawing, writing, reading, making puzzles, building with blocks, making up stories, swimming, dancing ballet, playing soccer and basketball …
Meandering around the house, I see all the photos of you we framed and proudly mounted on our walls. Sofia at two years old in her mom’s polka dress, with her gleeful scrunch-face smile. Sofia with her bug eyes and a chubby little hand, trying to fend off that first spoonful of rice cereal. Sofia posing in her Easter dress, looking very pretty and sweet. Sofia just a week old, asleep in my arms. Sofia arm in arm with her cousin, toddling up the hill at Hancock Shaker Village.
And now I have new photos to add: Sofia getting on and off the school bus and waiting to start her first day of school.
Like your dad, you like to do things perfectly the first time and get frustrated when things don’t work out as planned. School will present those sorts of challenges soon enough. But I have faith you will handle those challenges with aplomb, because you have inspired me the way you have tackled those things and gotten better at them through effort and persistence.
Earlier this summer, we went up to Camp Chase and they wanted you to take a swimming test to decide which end of the pool you could go in. Because your dad didn’t understand exactly what that test entailed, we decided to give it a try. And when you jumped into the water and sank straight down and cried from the shock after I pulled you up, I thought I had done something horrible -- put you in a position to fail and instead made you afraid of the water.
But no! Instead, you tackled learning to swim with single-minded dedication and purpose. You insisted we go to the pool every day and you got better and better at it, until you could swim across the width of the pool unassisted. You did not let initial failure get the best of you and you did not let the fear of failure stop you from pursuing something you really wanted to master. I was so, so very proud of you for that.
Earlier this summer you wanted to dribble a basketball. At first you could not do it very well and it made you sad. You cried and told me you didn’t want to do it anymore. But you applied the same dedication and now you can dribble not only the little pink and white basketball you insisted I buy on a trip to Dick’s Sporting Goods three years ago, but the full-sized basketball, too. You’ll be a better ball handler than your dad ever was at this rate. (My daydream: UConn recruits you but you turn them down for the school of your choice, because it’s about the free education.)
At first, learning to read made you frustrated. You would guess at the words rather than sound out the letters and get mad when you could not get every word the first time. But now you’re taking your time to sound out letters and words and you can read entire books by yourself. And once you really start reading, the world is yours to discover.
And though I have had to let you go many times now in your young life -- off to daycare and preschool, off with your grandmas and uncles and aunts, off to dance class -- now I am once more on the sidelines, clapping as you make that walk through the front door of your new school.
I remember what a miserable slog school was for me at times, and so I harbor a certain sense of dread at what can go wrong. But I see how confident you are, how brave you are, how smart and resourceful you are, what a good attitude you have about trying new things and making new friends and I am reassured.
And I see and feel your excitement. You, the girl who dawdled, dilly-dallied and lollygagged her way through many a morning (She once said, quote: “I’m not lollygagging!! … I’m not dilly-dallying, either!”), have been up bright and early and ready in plenty of time for the bus two days in a row now. You ate all your breakfast and you were psyched about getting on that bus. And about gym class. And music. “I hope we have music again,” you said. “I like my music teacher.”
(Note to self: Save for piano.)
You have advantages that your mother and I didn’t have. And though the world into which you are entering is a colder and crueler place in some respects, it is also a smarter place than the one in which we grew up. Go make your way in it.
I am so proud of you. I can’t wait to see what you’re going to do next.
Love,
Dad
