Tomorrow is Baby-Baby’s first day at nursery. We’re sitting here watching England play Switzerland, and the tears have come. I’m hoping it might mean I’ll keep it together tomorrow. I’ve started him a week before I actually go back, so at least I won’t be struggling to remember passwords and my ‘groove’ while being completely preoccupied. And I’ll have my big boy with me before he starts primary school on Wednesday, so I’m hoping it will be a nice day.
It’s not that I am worried about sending Baby-Baby to nursery so much that I am worried about detaching him from my, um, hip. We love our nursery and he did fine during his settling sessions, but they ended before hunger, and the need for comfort, reminded him I was no longer present. Our breastfeeding is baby-led, and he is a master. He likes his milk. I hope he likes his milk bottled tomorrow.
On the flip side, I’m hoping nursery two days a week will start to help him be a bit more independent of me. I saw my yoga instructor at the grocery store the other day, and it reminded me just how long and intense this time has been, and how nice a bit of ‘me’ time might be. (You know, the ‘me’ time where you put on a bit of make up, or at least brush your hair, and go to work all day.)
It is a funny emotional space. On one hand, I know this is a good step, for both of us, and it’s not super early – Baby-Baby’s 9 months old. But, he is my baby. It is the end of the first chapter, the last time, never to be repeated. Though I know there are a ba-zillion more chapters to come, with both of my children, I can’t help feeling slightly unready for this moment, and already a bit nostalgic for his baby days.
I hope he has fun, sweet baby.