Yesterday, my daughter graduated from her 2s Program. It was, on paper, a gentle introduction to school, where, for two 3-hour blocks per week, she would make crafts, sing songs, play in the gym and make new friends. It sounded magical, and age appropriate, so I signed her up, certain that this first school experience would be enriching, supportive and fun. 

But when we attempted our first drop off, reality hit. Standing in the school lobby on her first day, my child was not, as I had imagined, skipping happily into the classroom, full of wonder and excitement. She was, instead, furiously and desperately clinging to me, her cries escalating into a panicked screech when I tried to put her down. No amount of hugs, kisses, attempted distractions or reassurances that I would be back before she knew it mattered and as I watched the clock ticking past 9am, I too became fraught with tension, panic and overwhelm. This is not how this is supposed to go, I thought, and after nearly 15 minutes of upset and chaos, I did the only thing I could – I dropped her and ran, closed the door when I got to my office and cried for the rest of the day.

In the school days that followed, it seemed that I had not actually signed my child up for a fun and gentle learning experience, nope, I had signed us both up for the 9th circle of hell (kidding but not really). The separation panic she experienced at each drop off spread into all parts of our lives. On non school days, she would not stay with our nanny when I tried to leave the house – epic tears, screams, and tiny grasping hands made going to work torturous. Our easy bedtimes became prolonged nightmares, offering me the option to leave a distraught child scream-weeping in the crib, or to lay on the floor beside her until she fell asleep.

In my moms’ groups, the widely-shared trick that made drop off easier was for dad to do it. But, I am a single parent (“by choice” as they say although more on that another day) so drop off was all mine to do. The decision to send my daughter to this school had been all mine, the physical and emotional burden of managing the fall out was all mine, and coming up with a game plan on how to get out of this was also, all mine.

After several of the most painful weeks I’ve experienced (as a parent or otherwise), the school allowed my daughter to move into a “preschool prep” program which promised all the same magic and activities I’d envisioned for her, but with a caregiver present. For three months, my nanny and my daughter went to school together and my daughter loved every minute of it. She made sweet silly art (a crab and a snake and a pizza and a giraffe!), jumped on the trampoline, swung on the bars, learned the alphabet and how to count and made some wonderful friends. She was excited.  And after three months of preschool prep she was fully ready to walk back into the 2s classroom on her own – no tears, no fuss, just extra magic and extra fun and extra friends. 

And so yesterday, I guess I shouldnt have been surprised when, after seeing my daughter’s name on the graduation program, I cried. I cried openly, in front of my dad who had traveled 3 hours to see her accept her diploma. I cried in front of my nanny who insisted on remembering her first day here. I cried in front of the teachers, administrators and other parents. Because we had navigated a hard transition and found a way through something that was brutally difficult. We did it by being honest about our needs and adapting accordingly. And we did it together.

At the end of the ceremony, the school gifted each student a book called, “The Day You Begin” by Jacqueline Woodson. It made me reflect on all the beginnings I’ve had in my life, all the endings too, and how I’m losing track of the beginnings my daughter has experienced in less than three years. But when I sat at the breakfast table with her this morning, reading this book, I was moved to see that it is about the most important beginning of all. The day you begin to accept yourself, including all of your differences – because you will always be different. The day you begin to own your story – no matter how happy or how hard it may be. The day you begin to release expectations of who you should be or what you should be doing and allow yourself to be exactly who you are. 

So, today is the day I begin and today The Violet Hour does too. I am excited to share the magic and the realities of (single) motherhood and dig deep into navigating the many (many) transitions in parenthood. From sharing activities, recipes, travel tips, life hacks and the really real, I hope that this, like my daughter’s classroom, is a space that is enriching, supportive, fun and maybe even a little magical.

Welcome to The Violet Hour, we made it, together, and I’m so glad you’re here.