A few years ago I wouldn't have known what they meant by "successful drop-off" had I been privy to the exchanges of parents of school-aged children, all comparing notes on whether the drop-off that morning had been successful. Now that I have traversed the country of home daycare and wound up on the dark side of walking my 3 y.o. every morning to a classroom in a building with big kids AHHHHH FOURTH GRADERS ARE HORNY-TOED MONNNNNSTERRRRRS, I know what a successful drop-off means.
It means having a dissociative identity disorder for a few minutes every time you drop your kid off at school. My stars! I am so proud of you, my confident, ebullient, brilliant little person who has sprung from my loins into this grand arena of puzzles and sandboxes and knowledge. You jerk! How dare you just pull yourself away from me without so much as a hug and a proper good-bye! Okay, well, I'm just going to go get back to not eating all day because of the lump in my throat that grows bigger every time I think of you.
A successful drop-off does not involve sling-shotting your muncharoo through classroom doors and then shutting said doors and running like the dickens. So I've been told.
The other day, Loverpants picked up our star student from school and, as she had learned in three days of formal education, nothing happens in school worth reporting on, with the exception of the teacher's assistant having had to put on rubber gloves to clean up after Hurricane Tinkle had swept through the lav that day.
The following day, the teacher's assistant asked me at drop-off whether my daughter had told me how she had volunteered the day before to sing a solo to the music teacher? Errherrm, yeah, she had failed to mention that. But thank you!
*** Waiting for Big Sis to get home from school.
When she gets home, operator is ON.