The youngest youngling started preschool this week. She is the youngest to start out of the three of them, not yet three years old - but good god was she ready to start. I haven't been enough for her these last few months. No amount of playing, reading, play dough, park trips, play dates or Peppa Pig episodes have filled up her tank.
I've been telling Mr PL for months that I was going to just sit quietly
in the house for 7 hours that first day, just to wonder at the silence,
and reacquaint myself with my own thoughts. I ended up spending that
first day with a sinus infection, so close enough.
She cried for 30 seconds when I left her for her first session, had some water, and then she never looked back. My last baby, suddenly independent and needing time away from me. I cried for 3 minutes, made myself a cuppa and pondered my aching face; and looked back frequently.
For two days a week, I've regained my freedom, my independence
from the role of mum. In the past 8 years, I have had precisely 36 consecutive hours to myself, and I found myself working and sleeping for
most of that.
This new, quiet thing is novel; and I don't know how to use it. I have plenty of ideas, 8 whole years worth of stymied projects and ideas; and no clue how to realise them.
But at least I can hear myself think about them, for two days a week at least, which is nice.