Preschool was traumatizing

For me anyway. Though, I'm pretty sure it was for Miss H, too.

I desperately wanted Miss H in preschool after I had baby B. I didn't realize it at the time, but it was mostly because of the PPD. I just thought for some crazy-ass reason I'd be happier if she were gone for a bit during the days. I was wrong.

Of course.

Miss H attended preschool for all of 6 weeks. They may very well be the most traumatic 6 weeks of my life to date, and, well, I've been through some pretty traumatic stuff in my life, so that's saying a lot.

She would scream and cry and beg me to stay and not to leave her every morning I dropped her off. And then I would stand outside in the hall, or sit in the car, and just bawl like a baby. Sometimes I'd call J and tell him that I knew what I was doing was wrong, and yet there I was, still doing it. Not going to lie, he wasn't terribly supportive. At least, not in the way I was hoping he'd be.

I kept hoping he'd tell me that it was all for the best and she'd be fine. Instead he always told me that I should go back and get her then. I never did. Instead I just cried, ignoring all of my mommy-instincts, and drove around until it was time to pick her up again, instead of going home. I felt like the worst mother in the world during those weeks. And they were some of the lowest weeks of my life.

Then one day I went to take her to preschool and she started screaming in the parking lot. I just looked at her, my perfect, wonderful little girl. She wanted so desperately to be with me. As flawed and imperfect as I was. As much as I'd been snapping lately. Although I spent too much time holding the baby and not nearly enough time playing with her. She still just wanted to be with me. So I had to be doing something right.

So I scooped her up and smothered her in my arms and kissed her until she was calm. Then I asked her, "Do you want to go home, or do you want to go play with your friends?"

"Home," she answered. "Go home."

So we did.

And I had begun to think she'd completely forgotten about those traumatic weeks.

Until today while we were eating lunch and she was looking at a painting hanging on our wall that she had done at preschool all those months ago. And she turned to me and said, "H went to school. Momma come right back. But I cry and cry. It's okay baby, Momma sorry. I so sorry. But then Momma go bye-bye again and I cry and cry."

It took everything in me not to burst into tears as I listened to my 26-month-old recount her memories of that time. She remembered being in distress. She remembered me just leaving her. She remembered me apologizing when I came back, and then doing it all over again the next day.

It's heartbreaking.

And it's eye-opening.

I try my best to teach her that we only say "sorry" when we truly are. If we have done something that is wrong, and we plan to do our best not to do it again.

Yet I told her sorry every day that I picked her up, with every intention of doing the same thing the next day. What a hypocrite.

This is definitely a learning experience for the books. Probably one of those things that I will feel guilty about forever, especially now that I'm in a very clear state of mind and can look back on the situation. I'm appalled that it ever happened, to be honest. But I guess we don't do things we legitimately regret and then look back on those memories fondly.

I hope she forgets about those weeks, to be honest. I hope it's something she never asks about when she's older. I hope it's not something she ever has a vague memory of. It doesn't appear to be going that way, though. So if she ever asks, I'll answer her truthfully. And hopefully I've raised her to be the kind of person who can forgive another for their mistakes and misgivings.