My son started preschool this year.
The night before his first day, I cried.
I stayed awake until after midnight, labelling his clothes and preparing his lunch box and – for reasons I still don’t entirely understand, ironing his jean shorts.
I dropped him off in the morning, leaving him in the care of four adults who were essentially strangers to me, and I crossed my fingers and toes that these people would support, nurture and guide him through this enormous transition.
… but if I’m honest, I didn’t really think they would.
Emotional struggles with perfectly imperfect mums… we get it.
I didn’t think they’d have the time, interest or energy to offer him much more than the most basic level of attention.
I was terrified that I had left him to fend for himself, abandoned him to a wild world of children who did not have the skills or impulse control to handle the social environment in which they had been placed; wildly outnumbering a handful of Educators who were too overworked, underpaid and exhausted to care.