On the eve of preschool...

(from this site)

I don't know who was more apprehensive as we walked into the classroom—Madam or me. Certainly her small hand clutched mine tightly. But I wasn't exactly letting go.

It's a perfect childish wonderland of a classroom. Trains, a jumble of dress up clothes, blocks, stacks of books. A little fish tank in the corner.

Tomorrow she begins preschool—her feet taking their first steps on a path that may wend towards a PhD!

I have been known to get ahead of myself.

But I want her to love it. I do. I loved school—loved the feeling of mastery when I learned something new—that snick (Laini's wonderful word) when a fact settled into my brain and knocked all of the other things I knew delightfully askew. I loved how safe I felt as I burrowed my legs deeper under my desk, pressing my knees against the metal bottom with a clang. A little breathless with a secret I couldn't have explained.

I know the name of that feeling now. It was belonging.

I would be remiss if I pretended that my excitement about tomorrow is all about her starting school. How could I be? I am about to be handed that most precious gift—time. Chunks of time I have not had at my disposal since before she was born. And in the middle of the day! How utterly decadent.

So, yes, excited....but nervous too. As though I am about to go on a blind date, or meet a blog friend. I want to impress myself with wit and fascinating topics. I want to play with creativity and have long, fruitful conversations with myself. I want to get something done, finally. Not just writing this blog (and oh, I am so out of the habit, where I would once think, “Oh, that would be a great topic for the blog,” more often than not now I think, “Ugh, I WANT to write but have nothing to say!”) but also working on that Project that Shall Not as Yet Be Named.

I am afraid I will bore myself, and that now I will see that it has never really been time that stopped me, but fear and lack of talent.

No. I must MAKE this time work.

After all, I just signed up for a one day writing workshop and I need a partial something to bring with me. I was so nervous that my fingers shook as I clanged the mailbox door shut. That poisonous little inner voice that says, “You spend all of this money and try all of these things and NOTHING ever works for you.” was hissing its vicious mantra.

But I need to start again. How many times will I say that?

Until I start. Again.

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