Nell O'Leary

thoughts on becoming a drop-off mom

About a month back or so, when the time came to send our four and a half year old to the music preschool, one day a week, one hour and a half–(4.5 year old to 1 day a week, 1.5 hours)–I panicked. I posted on a fb group I’m freaking out about dropping off my son at music class!!!

Backing up. This teacher, and this school, are phenomenal. We took a year long class together with the teacher. If anyone tells you pre-k music is just a time-filler, they haven’t had the experience I have. Wow. Not only is the curriculum geared toward building their little minds and skill sets, it’s artfully woven into a fun time and a silly time and a playing music time. And most especially, a time for exposure to instruments and musical ideas I simply cannot provide.

BUT we’ve never dropped our kids anywhere. Only a few friends have babysat, otherwise always family. We’ve never left that at a gym play area, a church play area, a crafts play area, a daycare, a school, nothing.

Returning to my panic. I called my sisters, my friends, my husband at work, and my mom, is he ready? what if there are peanuts? what if he poops and doesn’t wipe all the way? what if he’s mean to another kid? what if he’s the sassy boy in class? I texted my bloggy mommy friends. I freaked out.

My fb group was soothing, for the most part. The moms reminded me that he is a sweet boy, one who is adventuresome but cautious. A boy who isn’t going to be nasty, and if he is, it’ll be a learning experience for him. And that this little letting go is a step for him toward other letting go’s. They were encouraging of our decision that he was ready, and supported me through my panic attack.

One friend’s comment stuck in my throat, though.

“I’m not a drop-off mom.”

or something to that effect. Although she was reassuring me in my decision he was ready for this time away from me with strangers {teacher aside}, if I thought he was, she wouldn’t have done that with her kids at that age, and didn’t.

Cue the strobe light panic button.

Running through my head: I’m a drop-off mom. I’m a mom abandoning her child. He could be hurt, scarred, injured, and I wouldn’t even know it. He could face irreparable damage. He could die of an allergic reaction. He could be exposed to awful things. He could feel deeply abandoned and frightened. And I wouldn’t even know.

Because I am a drop-off mom.

What I couldn’t shake from her comment was this sense of forced-guilt. I’m selfish. I’m dumping my kid so I can do something I want. I’m not taking care of my own child. I should be teaching him music. I should be protecting him from anything that could possibly happen to him. I’m insufficient as a mom. I shouldn’t have three kids if I don’t watch them all. All the time.

None of these thoughts are factually accurate. The measly hour and a half? I sometimes take the other two to the coffee shop down the street and try to keep them quiet enough for the adult patrons to keep their glares at a minimum (and use their bathroom for unsuccessful potty tries). Sometimes I drive around in the car so the baby can sleep and the tot can look for other red cars out the window. Sometimes I dash to run an errand, only to have two melting down children, and then get back in the car and go back to the music school to hang in their sunlight area for families.

And I can’t take care of every need of my child. I’m not a specialist in music development for early childhood. I can afford to give him this, so why hold back on some weird principle of being the Alpha & Omega? And if something bad happens (unlikely with two teachers, ten kids, one room with the door closed), we’ll deal with it. Three kids or one kid, I’d still want him to take a music class.

Maybe you’re reading this and thinking what the hell is her problem? I’ve safely and satisfactorily dropped my child off for school, daycare, music, dance, art, babysitting? Maybe you remember when your firstborn did something no one else had done before in your heart: taken a big leap away from you, your care, your eyes, your hands. And you remember how it was scary but beautiful, all at once. And you remember that with that first letting go, came the confidence to let him do other things.

So I’m a drop-off mom, now. And I’m okay with it.

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