My 22-month-old, Desi, started school last week. She has spent her entire life chilling in the comfort of her playroom, living la vida local and operating under the reasonable belief that the world revolves around her existence.
Then her mother and I started talking about something called “school”. Desi seemed excited, although I doubt the word meant much to her. Perhaps she asked AI what it meant; if she did, the model left out the part where your parents disappear. All she saw was a new uniform and everybody making a fuss, so from her side, the arrangement looked exciting.
She was meant to resume on Monday, but I was away, so we waited until I returned on Thursday. Her mum and I wanted to be there for her first day. Desi also understood that first impressions matter, so she entered her fashionista era, picked her own shoes and got fully swagged up.
If these people were going to educate her, they needed to know they were dealing with a babe.
Days 1 and 2: She thought school was soft play…
The first day went better than we expected because Desi did not understand what was happening.
She is used to soft-play centres. We take her there, she runs around for about two hours, and we stay nearby. Her classroom looked suspiciously like a soft-play area, so she assumed the same terms and conditions applied. She would play, we would wait, and everybody would return home without damaging the relationship.
Mimie and I disappeared while she was distracted. She did not notice us leaving, and we returned two hours later without drama.
Friday followed the same pattern. She walked in, found toys and carried on with her life. The school day lasted two hours for the first week, which was also her average soft-play session, so she had no reason to suspect that we had smuggled formal education into her life.
Then Monday came, her third day and first 5-hour class. She must have spent the weekend figuring out our trick because, as it seemed, she had caught the gist.
Day 3: It was absolute chaos…
Desi started clinging to Mimie as soon as we entered the school. The children were outside on the playing field that morning, and about half of them were crying.
I suspect the crying had a ripple effect. One child would scream, another would remember that she also had parents who abandoned her, then she would join. Soon, close to twenty toddlers were crying at the same time.
It sounded like a competition, and no child wanted to underperform.
Mimie tried to pass Desi to Mrs C, her lead teacher.
“Go to my daddy”, Desi cried.
I carried her, and she switched sides at once.
“Go to my mummy”.
I told Mimie to step outside so we could complete the handover. I thought she might let go if her mum was out of sight.
“I want to go home”.
She had reviewed every available option and rejected school.
She cried so hard. It was the worst I had ever seen her cry. She held on to my shirt as though the fabric alone could stop me from leaving. As I passed her to Mrs C, she looked at me like I had spent 22 months earning her trust only to destroy it in three seconds. I cannot remember the last time I felt that sad.
If someone had told me this story before that morning, I would have found the whole drama strange. Drop the child, turn around and leave. She will cry for a while and be fine. Why are two adults turning a school day into a national tragedy?
That advice was easy to give when it was somebody else’s child. Everything looks simple when you are not the one whose shirt she is holding. They say the best judge of character is what you do when the situation belongs to you. Apparently, I am an emotionally weak soft dada.
Several thoughts held an emergency meeting in my head during those three seconds. What do they teach children in this school that could justify this level of heartbreak? Should I just take her home so we could run around the house together? Could she start next year instead? Plenty of people have started school late and still found employment.
I knew we had to face this at some point. I still hated being the person who handed her over while she begged to go home.
Mrs C deserves her flowers though. The children find comfort with her, but five children may need that comfort at the same time while she remains one human being with two hands. That morning, several toddlers wanted her to carry them and reassure them that their parents had not donated them to the school.
Some of us wake up at 10 a.m., open Slack, reply “noted” when we are in a good mood, and then start to feel our work is difficult. There are levels to difficult work. Mrs C’s work is the real difficult work.
………
I walked out with heavy feet and found Mimie waiting. Before I could say two words about how heartbroken I felt, she burst into tears.
Desi was crying inside. Her mother was crying outside. I was the last line of defence.
It would have been strange for the breadwinner to join them, so I cried internally.
I stayed quiet because saying “sorry” to someone who is crying can make the situation worse.
We entered the car and sat there for close to an hour. Neither of us wanted to go home and carry on as though we had not abandoned our only child with strangers five minutes earlier.
We returned home in the end, but I could not focus for most of the five hours she was away. I kept checking the school app for an update. The school had told us they would call if she refused to settle, so Mimie kept checking her phone in case they asked her to come and carry her crying child :)
No update came for a while because, as expected, the teachers were busy negotiating with twenty angry children.
At pickup, Desi began crying again when she saw us. I think she needed to put her grievance on record so we would not conclude that she had forgiven us.
Once reunited, she started gisting us about the day.
“The babies crying,” she said.
An interesting statement from one of the lead performers in the morning’s crying competition.
She also told her mum that she played with the swing. According to Desi’s official account, the other babies had spent the day being emotional while she observed the situation and enjoyed the school facilities.
Day 4: The crying continued, but she still said “I love you”…
On Tuesday, Mimie played with the idea of letting her stay home. I refused. One of us had to pretend to have principles.
The drop-off was better, if “better” means the crying no longer sounded like we had handed her to kidnappers.
During the protest, I told Desi, “I love you. Say it back.”
“I wovvv you,” she replied grudgingly.
When we returned, she was in the Arabic classroom, clapping and dancing. She was even standing on a chair.
The same child we had considered rescuing that morning had taken over the class before pickup.
Day 5: It was my turn to suggest she stay home…
On Wednesday, I suggested that she could stay home. Mimie refused.
Our system had become clear: one parent would propose truancy while the other would act responsibly. We would switch roles as needed.
At school, Mimie passed her to Mrs C. Desi cried, but only a little. No tantrum, just a few tears to show that she still objected to the arrangement.
When we returned, Desi was sitting at a table with Mrs C and her bestie, Ezra, minding their business. Neither Desi nor Ezra had supported the school arrangement at first, but seeing each other seemed to help. The school might be a scam, but at least someone you knew had been captured as well.
Day 6: She asked Mrs C to take her outside…
On Thursday, Mimie handed Desi to Mrs C.
Instead of asking to go home, she pointed towards the outdoor play area and said, “Go outside”.
Mimie and I did the happy dance.
We had gone from rescuers to the two people standing between her and the playground.
Day 7: She walked in and told us bye-bye…
On Friday, we decided not to carry her into the classroom. I held her hand as we walked in, then let go at the classroom.
Desi walked to her teacher herself.
She turned towards us and said, “Bye-bye”.
Mimie and I did the happy dance again. A week earlier, we had needed to disappear before she noticed. Now she was dismissing us.
After seven days: Maybe things work out if you do it long enough…
Her disappointment on Monday still hurt me more than all the noise.
For 22 months, Desi had known us as the people who came when she cried. On Monday, she cried for us, and I handed her to someone else.
Mimie and I knew she was safe. We knew Mrs C was kind and that we would return in five hours. Desi knew none of that. She only knew that the two people she trusted had chosen to walk away while she begged them to stay.
School has become her first small life outside our home. She now has people, games and stories that we do not witness. She can stand on a chair in Arabic class, chill on a table with Ezra and return home with a report about everyone else’s behaviour.
Somewhere between Monday’s crying competition and Friday’s “bye-bye”, the place stopped looking like a threat.
I know this is where someone adds “keep going” to a picture of a mountain and turns the story into motivational content. I am that “someone“.
The first difficult day is often a poor judge of what something will become. Sometimes the breakthrough is boring: you return, the place stops feeling strange, and Mrs C becomes Mrs C instead of the woman your parents handed you to.
Maybe plenty of things work out once you stay long enough to see what comes after the crying.
Although, according to Desi, she was never crying.
The babies were crying. She played with the swing.
