The upstairs of the building is reserved for newborns and kids under 3. The downstairs is for the “big kids.” Preschool. For a few months now I’ve noticed Will is the oldest and biggest kid upstairs. And, not to brag (OK, specifically to brag), but he’s also so advanced. He’s just so fucking smart. His vocabulary, the way he grasps concepts, the way he interacts with people. I’d watch him with the younger kids and they just seemed like they were on two different planes.
So they decided to move him in with the big kids today. Even though the move was technically downstairs, it felt like he was being called up to the major leagues.
He’s growing up so damn fast. And as old as he looked next to the younger kids upstairs, he looked like such a baby amongst the older kids. He’s now the youngest one in his class, a small fish in a big pond. But thankfully he seems to love it. Will has always gravitated towards older kids, so I have no doubt he’ll weave himself right into the fabric of downstairs life.
I made fun of MJ over the weekend because she got a little emotional about the move. Yet there I was this morning, trying not to look like I was choked up as my preschooler barely gave me a kiss goodbye so he could go off and play with the big kids.
But it wasn’t just Will brushing by me. It’s the inexorable march of time that never ceases to stun parents. It’s blinking an eye and watching your newborn take his first steps. It’s turning your head for just a split second, and when you glance back you see a full-fledged toddler who’s starting preschool. Sometimes I’m afraid to take my eyes off him for fear that when I look back I’ll be watching him head off to college.
I’m learning that being a parent not only means celebrating each milestone, but also lamenting them a tiny bit.