Commencement

Commencement
We're taking our daughter, Kaitlyn, to her first day of kindergarten. She is being very brave. So are we.
We're saying: "This is great!" And: "You're going to have a wonderful time!"
Kaitlyn’s thinking: This is it. The fun part of life is over now.
We're thinking: Please, please, PLEASE let her not hate this and let the other kids be nice to her and let her teachers see, among all those little bobbing heads and skinny arms and Band-Aided legs, what a wonderful little girl this is.
I know this is just as rough for everybody else. I know all the kids are special. I know that the teachers are very, very nice, and that, over the years, they've had hundreds of kids like Kaitlyn.
But not Kaitlyn.
I think: If only they could put her to bed just one time, hear her talk to herself while reading stories. If only they could have seen her get so worried that she would have no friends in her class to help her get through it. If only they could see how sweet she is under that shy shell of hers. If only they could understand how she helps her mom and dad with Carsen and how much she loves to hold and play with Abigail.
We're getting near the school, and Kaitlyn is trying so hard to be brave that I am about ready to turn around and drive back home and sit down on the living-room floor and play with her and hug her forever and the heck with developing Motor Skills and Language Skills and Math Skills and Socialization and growing up in general.
"This is going to be great, " I say.
I give her her lunch money. I wish I could give her my muscles, to keep in the pocket of her little Jeans in case a big kid tries to bully her. I wish I could give her my mind, so she'd understand why she has to go to school. I wish I understood it. I wish she could realize, as I do now after years of being in her shoes, how being worried about most things in life is scary but we get through it, about how it never goes away but we do learn to deal with it and be functional.
"I remember when I started kindergarten!, " I say, sounding to myself like Mister Rogers. "It was scary at first, but I made a lot of friends!"
What I'm really remembering is the way kids got teased in kindergarten. Because they were fat. Because they were short. For no reason at all. I wasn’t teased this way but I remember being so scared of Kingdergarten I would hold onto Mom’s legs with every ounce of strength I had, how I would hide in the green and white truck when we got to the school because I did not want to go in. I was scared of the unknown, I still am. And I know she is too. I am like her. She is like me. Please, help her know we are always so close and will be there in a heartbeat if needed.
We're at her classroom. We're supposed to leave right away. They told us that in Parents' Orientation. They said hanging around only makes it worse. It couldn't be any worse. Kaitlyn is fighting panic, asking questions, stalling to keep us there, tears running quietly down her cheeks.
"How many hours will it be?" she asks.
Thousands, I think. Thousands and thousands, in classrooms, away from us, until you've learned to accept it, and you don't cry when we leave you, and you never stop worrying, but you learn, and to learn is why you are here.

I got this from Dave Barry. I altered it just a little to fit Kaitlyn. This is how I am feeling about her going to school. Thank Heaven it is only 2 blocks away.