During Twila’s first week of school she said goodbye happily the first day, clung and resisted and had tears the second day, and on the third day she smiled through her tears, hugged me twelve times and gave me eighteen last kisses, resolved to be brave. Separation has always been harder for Twila; her comfort zone is with adults not children.
This means that she is polite and well spoken, comfortable talking to adults; it means she is a mother hen on steroids, always caring for Jada and other babies around, speaking in a gentle, patient tone; it means she knows the expression “on his last leg” and uses it regularly to refer to insects and baby mice who aren’t doing well. It also means that she doesn’t adjust to new groups of kids as easily as some other children.
Each morning of school last year, Twila had anxiety about school, asking not to go. Each afternoon, she glowed as I picked her up, insisting she didn’t miss me, had too much fun to miss me; she was thrilled to show me that day’s art project. But each morning she seemed unable to channel this knowledge when the drop off came; it was the goodbye she dreaded. This year, the pattern seems to be repeating.
Both the girls have colds, coughs, head congestion. So we’ll be limiting plans this week, staying in, wearing sweaters and thick socks. The chill in the air becomes more prevalent as another school year begins, another Minnesota September presses on. This week we retreat further indoors to read, watch movies, build fires, and cuddle.
This means that she is polite and well spoken, comfortable talking to adults; it means she is a mother hen on steroids, always caring for Jada and other babies around, speaking in a gentle, patient tone; it means she knows the expression “on his last leg” and uses it regularly to refer to insects and baby mice who aren’t doing well. It also means that she doesn’t adjust to new groups of kids as easily as some other children.
Each morning of school last year, Twila had anxiety about school, asking not to go. Each afternoon, she glowed as I picked her up, insisting she didn’t miss me, had too much fun to miss me; she was thrilled to show me that day’s art project. But each morning she seemed unable to channel this knowledge when the drop off came; it was the goodbye she dreaded. This year, the pattern seems to be repeating.
Both the girls have colds, coughs, head congestion. So we’ll be limiting plans this week, staying in, wearing sweaters and thick socks. The chill in the air becomes more prevalent as another school year begins, another Minnesota September presses on. This week we retreat further indoors to read, watch movies, build fires, and cuddle.
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