I'm in a spare, nearly empty antique office in downtown Beverly, five minutes away from you while you are enjoying your first day of Montessori. At least, I hope you are enjoying it. You were smiling and looking with curiosity at all the other kids and babies, and when we got to your classroom your favorite teacher Donna was waiting for you, and you reached out to her right away. I wrote down my cell number and kissed your cheek twice and waved bye bye with both hands and I made it all the way to the car before I started to cry.
I know it's good for you. I know it. You need to be with adults who aren't your father or Manamana or me. You need to be with other babies. They have a whole room set up just for you. It's time to start learning to nap not in my arms. But damn, am I a stereotype of a first time mother dropping her baby off at day care.
I'm going to try to work today, so that I can at least point to a good reason why you are in a classroom with relative strangers instead of at home with me and your father. If everything goes perfectly I am to pick you up at noon, which is in two hours. If you are having a tough time they have promised to notify me. I can be there in five minutes.
Five minutes.
I love you so much it hurts.
Do you know that? If you ever read this, then you will.
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