I Trust You'll Treat Her Well

As a project manager, I sometimes get a little sad at the end of a project, when it's time to pass the baton to some nameless, faceless functional manager who will take over ownership of "my baby" and try to manage it from here on out.  That feeling, however, is dwarfed by the thought of sending my child to school, and that feeling is at its amplified worst on the child's first day of Kindergarten.  (That was last year... I'm still recovering.)  This essay by Dan Valentine (modified ever so slightly) states those feelings better than I could ever put into words:

World-

I bequeath to you today one little girl in a crisp dress... with two blue eyes... and a happy laugh that ripples all day long... and a batch of light brown hair that bounces in the sunlight when she runs.  I trust you'll treat her well.

She's slipping out of the backyard of my heart this morning and skipping off down the street to her first day of school.  And never again will she be completely mine.  Prim and proud, she'll wave a young and independent hand this morning, and say good-bye, and walk with little lady steps to the nearby school house.

Gone will be the chattering little girl who lived only for play, the delightful little child who roamed the yard like a proud princess with nary a care in her little world.  Now she will learn to stand in lines... and wait by the alphabet for her name to be called.  She will learn to tune her little girl ears for the sound of school bells and for deadlines... She will learn to giggle and gossip... and to look at the ceiling in a disinterested way when the little boy across the aisle sticks out his tongue.  Now she will learn to be jealous... and now she will learn how it is to feel hurt inside... and now she will learn how not to cry.

No longer will she have time to sit on the front porch steps on a summer day and watch while an ant scurries across a crack in the sidewalk.  Nor will she have time to pop out of bed with the dawn to kiss lilac blossoms in the morning dew.  Now she will worry about "important things"... like grades... and what dresses to wear... and whose best friend is whose.  Now she will worry about the little boy who pulls her hair at recess time... and staying after school... and which little girls like which little boys.

And the magic of books and knowledge will soon take the place of the magic of her blocks and dolls.  And she'll find new heroes.  For five full years I've been her sage and Santa Claus... her pal and playmate... her parent and friend.  Now (alas) she'll learn to share her worship and adoration with her teachers (which is only right).  No longer will her parents be the smartest and the greatest in the world.

Today, when the first school bell rings, she'll learn how it is to be a member of a group... with all its privileges and, of course, its disadvantages, too.  She'll learn in time that proper young ladies don't laugh out loud... or keep frogs in pickle jars in the bedroom... or watch ants scurry across the cracks in a summer sidewalk.  Today, she'll begin to learn that all who smile at her are not her friends.  That "the group" can be a demanding mistress... and I'll stand on the porch and watch her start out on the long, long journey to becoming a woman.

So, World, I bequeath to you today one little girl in a crisp dress, with two blue eyes, and a happy laugh that ripples all day long, and a patch of of light brown hair that bounces in the sunlight when she runs.  I trust you'll treat her well.

Comments

[Lucia Mancuso]

Don't worry Tim I feel your pain - it is so hard for me to pass something off to someone - it's like - I love her and have been so good to her - please do mess with her head.

I feel sorry for my frist child when she goes to school - I'll be a wreck.