Dear Nursery-School Mom,
Believe it or not, I was once in your shoes. Picture yourself kneeling down, a brightly bandaged baby snug against you, as you console your 3-year-old who’s in tears over the earthworms. “They emerge when it rains,” you say, “and unfortunately, some of them drown. It’s both sad and scary.” Your little one nods, adding between sniffs, “And they smell too.”
As you both look up, my daughter strides by—she’s a sixth grader now, playing Ralph Rackstraw in the school’s HMS Pinafore production. She might as well be a towering giant, adorned in a crown and tossing candy from a float on a glittering elephant. Your child knows her name; I can tell because he whispers it loud enough for you to hear as she passes.
You glance at me, and I offer a friendly smile. But I can’t help but worry that I might look like a grinning jack-o’-lantern to you, or perhaps like a witch with my crumbling smile and weary skin. Instead of a baby, I have two tall kids, and instead of milk, my body has taken on a different shape. If you look too closely, you might even see my uterus tumble out like a tumbleweed.
As you greet a fellow mom with her own matching baby, you’ll linger in the parking lot chatting about glass sippy cups and sleep schedules. Someone will joke about bringing tequila to the playgroup. You won’t be in a rush to leave—unless your little one spots you through the nursery window, then all bets are off, and there will be tears.
I’ll lean down just enough to kiss my daughter, whose face is radiant and lively, with long, dark lashes and cheekbones that are beginning to emerge. Then I’ll hop into my car alone, buckle up, and drive to a café where I’ll enjoy a quiet morning of writing. No lukewarm vanilla milk or crumbly scone bits to share with a tiny human racing toward the trashcan. I won’t be leaving the café with an apologetic smile, rushing back for preschool pickup at 11:30, which feels both way too early and yet too late for nap time.
You’ll whisk your kids home for Annie’s Mac and Cheese (with peas!) and an afternoon nap, only to coax them into their shoes for a leisurely stroll to the local farm. You’ll marvel at daffodils and bees, feeling the gentle spring breeze on your face. As you stand by the fence to watch the goats and miniature horses, your son will go silent, his wide eyes fixed on the animals. He’ll reach for your hand while popping his thumb into his mouth, and you’ll savor the moment, nestled against your squealing baby.
You might find yourself pondering dinner and whether this slow, peaceful life is how it will always be. You’ll wonder about the older moms—what do they do with their time? (We sip wine from real glasses while our kids make salad.) Do they still bend down every two seconds? (We don’t.) Do they miss this—sunshine after snowstorms and the sweet scent of a baby’s head? Oh, we do. We really do. Not the snow gear or endless colds, but that indescribable baby-head smell: the fresh scent of a little one waking from a nap or snuggling up to nurse. Those days of endless baby moments do eventually fade, but one day, you’ll find yourself sneaking in at night just to bend down, just to breathe in that sweet, familiar scent once more. You will be that person who bends down for no reason at all.
You might not believe it now, but trust me—it’s true.