First day of school

Today marked the first day of school for both Maïa and Solanne. It proved weird for me on both fronts.

This morning, Maïa and I headed out to her bus stop a couple of short blocks from our home. We met another girl (grade five) and her dad who were waiting for the same bus. A far cry from the 18 or 20 kids that waited with Maïa last year, most of whom lived on our street. This is an anglo neighbourhood, and our kids are being bused out to a French school.

When the bus came, we made sure it was going to the right place, and Maïa climbed up and waved good-bye. That was it. I haven't met her teacher—didn't even know her name until Maïa told me what it was today, after school. No meet-and-greet, no notes in an agenda, nothing. I feel like I'll be sending my kid into a black hole every morning, and she'll emerge, more or less safely, at the end of the day, slightly changed for the experiences she'll have had—without me.

On the other hand, we got to meet Solanne's teachers this morning. Teachers (plural) because the French system is ingeneous and incorporates free daycare every other day, so that Solanne gets full days at school: one full day of official "school" followed by a day of daycare. It's all integrated and seemless, except for the change of teachers. And both her teachers seem géniale.

Solanne will have what they call une entrée échelonnée, which loosely translated means "most inconvenient to parents." This week, there was the meeting with the teachers, then Friday she'll go for the full day, with five other classmates (this schedule dictates that Sol has to stay home on the other days while her classmates all get the opportunity to experience class in a tiny group). She'll be starting her regular schedule Friday of next week.

This has left us scrambling to find care for her. And here's my sudden awareness that I'm a working mom. Correction, we're working parents. Once upon a time, I was a working mom, but Derek was home, so if something came up, Derek could take care of it. But now with Derek planning his classes (and later, teaching) and me about to experience the busiest couple of weeks at work (because of this), neither of us have the option of taking time off.

We do have the extreme luck and luxury of being close to family again and able to ask grandmothers to pitch in (hey, they say they want to...). But I sometimes feel like I've failed somehow when I show up, hat in hand, asking them to take care of the kids, yet again. Like I've failed to keep my ducks in a row, or failed as a mom by having to put my job ahead of my kids (of course, when it comes down to it, I'd quit any job that didn't let me take care of my kids, but still...).

So while I struggle with Maïa's newfound independence from me and the fact that my teeny little baby is starting junior kindergarten, I'm also facing the working mother's dilema (or false dichotomy) of job vs kids. Never two without three, I guess.

Tangled

As I type this, Derek is reading a bedtime story to the girls: Charlotte's Web. It's the first time that he's ever read the story himself, and it's also the first time that he's read a novel to the girls. The first instalment was on our drive down to St Catharines last week. This week, they've had a chapter every night before bed.

Last night, Wilbur the little pig found out that he was being fattened up so that he would make a good Christmas dinner. Derek was reading away, but he noticed that Solanne became very quiet. She wiped her eyes. And sniffed. Then she piped up: "These silly eyes. They keep having tears. Why won't they stop?"

I was floored to learn that a three-year-old would put on such a brave face, to face sorrow and injustice. She's learning to be strong, to hang tight. Sometimes I wish they didn't have to learn that particular lesson.