Ethan started preschool today. Or rather, Ethan grabbed preschool by the horns today and wrestled it to the ground.
"He's never been to preschool?" said the director, amazed. "You wouldn't know!"
I was worried about leaving him. New place, new people. But I should have known better: He may look like a clone of preschool-aged me, but he's most definitely not me. He walked right in, said hello to his teachers, and started baking some bread in the play kitchen.
Now I have two hours until preschool is over to sit in a quiet apartment and contemplate life. I can tease out the tangled threads of emotion I feel about all this: He obviously loves being around kids, yet I project my own insecurities about being the New Person onto him. I feel like taking care of him is my job (especially since I quit the one that actually paid money), but now for 20 hours a week, other (very friendly, very trustworthy) people will care for him. I know he needs to be around other kids, but part of me wants him to only need me.
I now have 20 hours a week to myself—almost a whole calendar day. And frankly, I don't know what to do. I think I'll start by taking a nap.