Allow me not even three hundred words to just beam like only a proud daddy can beam.
My boy was barely 30 months old when his teacher told us he was ready to join the three-year-old class. “I’ve run out of things to teach him here,” she apologized.
The only reason he didn’t start in “real” preschool until last week was, they have to wait until the kids are fully potty trained before joining in with the big’uns. To put it another way: Diapers aside, my boy learned in six months of three half-days a week what it takes most kids 12 months of five full days a week to absorb.
Now when I go to pick him up at midday, he’s by far the smallest kid in the room. But if there’s any fear, it’s all mommy’s and daddy’s — our boy holds his own just fine against the big kids.
The transition between classes was supposed to take at least two weeks, the staff warned us. Preston completed the move in ten days, hardly once looking back.
That’s the beaming part. But as every parent knows, for every bit of pride there’s at least one small moment of heartbreak.
While all this transitioning was going on, Pres told us one night when we tried to tuck him into bed, “I do it!”
“But we love tucking you in.”
“I do it!” he insisted. And so we relented.
And so now my son, not yet three years old, tucks his own self into bed after his story each night.
I knew he’d make me proud. I knew he’d break my heart. But nobody warned me he would someday break my heart with pride.