Today was Mr. P's second day of preschool.
The world has not imploded.
So far, so good.
We decided to enroll him at the Lutheran preschool that besides being recommended by some people, had the even better qualification of being about two minutes from my house.
The staff are all very friendly and cheerful, almost a bit too much. I want to ask them if I can have some of whatever they are having, because I would like to be that perky and nice all the time. Eh, well, maybe I'll pass on that one. Cranky and bitter, that's how Gina rolls!
Mr. P has officially passed his human barnacle stage and shed nary a tear or backward glance at the semi-sniffling Mom and Dad who stood feeling a little bewildered in the hallway as he chattered to the teacher. We slunk away to lunch, with Hubba-hubba suggesting I order a margarita to soothe myself since I was feeling some major separation anxiety. I declined and implemented deep breathing exercises interspersed with short "whoo" noises as I tried not to tear up. I'm sure the tables next to us were so disappointed to see us leave.
We came back home and I was half-expecting the answering machine to have a message from the school with something along the lines of: "Your child burst into tears and is inconsolable. Please pick him up because we want the screaming to stop. Now."
But of course, nothing remotely close to that happened, and I was left with the realization that my son can function perfectly without my motherly ministrations.
So according to most parenting standards, my son is fine. He would would fall under the category of not fine if indeed he did buckle under the pressure of no parental supervision.
It's me that isn't fine.
One pitcher of margaritas coming right up.