The Last Of Firsts

I’m all about finding the cloud on the outside of the silver lining. It’s what I do. Call me Eeyore. 

So I can’t help but notice when yet another “first” has blasted through my heart, scrambling my mama-emotions, and left me in a sad little sentimental heap, as it becomes a “last”. My baby, my last baby, my darling little girl, my little miracle child, is not my baby anymore.

I tried to deny it when she ditched diapers because, let’s face it, she still pees the bed, and pull ups ain’t cheap. I tried to brush it aside when those back molars came in and she begrudgingly accepted the fact that I had to call “closing time” on nursing (she was the only one I sincerely worried I would still be nursing on her spring-break visits from college). I diligently ignored her growing vocabulary, exploding creativity, and generally off-the-charts sassafras, because of her tiny size. I mean, after all, I’m still pulling size 3 clothes out of her drawers, and her butt could fit on a graham cracker.

But there’s no denying it now. Because babies don’t go to kindergarten. Nope, kinder is for big girls.

Natalie’s first day of school was, according to her (and flippantly matter-of-factly, I might add), “Great!”.  She did her chores, worked on her ABCs (because her sister was determined she should be very schooly), and compared feathers we found in the yard to our bird identification book. She was read to, drew pictures of the beach, watched a program about flying fish, had lovely snacks, and jumped on the trampoline for PE.

Frankly, it was no different from any other day in this house. But in her world, it was the first day of kindergarten, and she’ll remember it forever.

And so will her mother. Because it was MY very last First Day of School.