Never mind I didn't take those classes to begin with. I delivered her just fine, thank you. Something about my body being naturally equipped to do these things. (As long as "naturally" includes a hefty dose of epidural, I'm all over it.) Except I don't do much of anything naturally. Not even my hair. Especially not my hair.
But they don't tell you --in the hospital, as delivery is imminent--that you will be delivering your child for the rest of life. You will deliver her into the hands of others over and over. Last summer I delivered her into the hands of a preschool staff. With much fear and trembling. And I paid dearly for the privilege. And I continue to write that check every month.
We began the delivery process again last night as we took her to kindergarten registration. There was less hand wringing on my part this time, watching her thrive in preschool has lessened the anxiety in that regard, but my heart filled and threatened to spill out through my eyes as I looked around at the classroom and realized...my girl is growing up. So fast. Kindergarten. Real, unadulterated school. There's no turning back now. No vestige of babiness left. I have a little girl who is blurring the line between little and big at an alarming rate.
I wouldn't change this. Not for the world.
Why am I forced to let go more often than I'm ready?