The graduating class of 2021

That's Carolyn. I'll pause if you need a tissue. No? Well, I never thought I'd need one either, but I about lost it when I learned this little tidbit from her new principal.

Because, it just dawned on me at that moment, now I guess she has a principal. And a school mascot. And she needs to know how to open her own milk carton and tie her own shoes. I can't even listen to the White Stripes song, "We're Going to be Friends," without resorting to a sort of blubbering that should be reserved for real problems like death, divorce and "Steel Magnolias."

It never dawned on me that I'd be tired from all this growing up crap.

Initally, I really went into this kindergarten registration thing excited. I'm excited because Carolyn is excited. She really wants to go to school, which I guess is awesome. But at some point Thursday, everything turned around on itself.

Like when Principal Shaw said our tiny little 5-year-olds will be so happy when we walk them to class and help them with their backpacks and put them in their little seats. They'll be happy on that first day, he said. In fact, they'll be happy for about a week until they realize it's better to do it by themselves. Finally they'll say, "Mom... Stop holding my hand in the hallway."

Not only that, but it got way worse for me when she did a stupid little craft at school and the teaching assistant wrote on a little piece of paper, "Carolyn: Struggled with cutting along the lines." Are you kidding me! She's already stigmatized and she hasn't actually started school yet. It's probably nothing, but what parent doesn't think their kid is the best. The best at everything.

I do. After all, she started as a lump in my belly, evolving into a totally helpless blob of person that couldn't do anything. And now she can write her name and swing across the monkey bars and ride (sort of) her bike. It's totally a miracle.

Pretty soon, it won't matter that I think everything she does is pure gold. It just crushes me to think it's starting to matter what other people think. People that don't even know her and her perfectness. It's not enough that she'll join swim team this summer and probably come in last at every race, now she's in a race of who can read the best, or who can sing the best, or who can cut the best, most accurate lines with kiddy scissors.

I'm sorry, but that's just too much for me to think about. Thank goodness none of this matters to her, at least for now. She's just excited about school. About a new teacher and friends and carrying her own lunch box.

So I'll hold her hand to class until she decides she's rather walk alone. And she'll go to her classroom. And I'll go home and cry in the bathroom, if I can make it to the bathroom. God please let me make it to the bathroom.

Because I guess that's the way it's supposed to be.