Well, my little schnookums headed to kindergarten this past week.
And just like when her mother entered the school system full time 30 years ago, I cried like a baby.
The preschool years are so golden, so perfect, so ripe with love and curiosity and hope that it’s hard to say goodbye to them.
But say goodbye we must. Children need to grow up, become independent and find their passion. They deserve to discover and grow into who they are meant to be.
This transition is often hard for parents. I had no idea it could be just as challenging for grandparents.
Unlike moms and dads, who lovingly project to the day their little ones will graduate or start a career or begin a family, grandparents don’t have the luxury of imagining deep into the future. Their days are shorter. Their time is now.
And that is why COVID-19 will always be bittersweet to me.
Youngsters whose early years were set to the backdrop of COVID were robbed of normalcy. No easing into the school system, no public outings, no friends over for the afternoon.
Terrified their small, vulnerable children would catch the deadly virus, many parents found their only recourse was to create a bubble until the danger passed.
When I opted for an early retirement in February 2020, I wondered how my life would change. Would I look for a new job, perhaps in a different field? Would I spend the free time reading, gardening and baking — all things I’d longed for more time to do when I was in the throes of a daily 9 to 5-6-7? Or would I become lazy and mourn the loss of important work, income and relationships?
I didn’t really wonder for long. The world changed within a month of my time windfall. As we panicked, adjusting to a lifestyle of canceling future plans and staying home for everything, a small visitor began stopping by more often.
We were living in a bubble, relating to almost everyone virtually, which meant we were a safe place to visit for this unvaccinated young girl whose preschool had been suddenly canceled.
I had no idea at the time that those visits would become longer and more frequent. During those days, then months, then years, we played, we read, we did almost everything one can do with a preschooler, from making rainbow pancakes to tie-dying T-shirts.
In the winter, my husband and I lined up all of the Christmas statues in the basement. We sat her in the wagon and “traveled” to holiday town. At each stop, she’d jump out and greet the plastic Santa or Frankenstein and pretend it was Christmas or Halloween or Easter.
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We went on scavenger hunts for objects that were red or that began with the letter B. We played hide-and seek. We pranked Grandpa almost daily, leaving dolls and hair bows on his computer when his back was turned.
We built forts and slept under the stars. Turns out, virtual experiences are perfect for tykes who want to try something new, like camping with ogres or hiking through blizzards to find Elsa, without all the weather and real dangers.
We had dance parties — just us — and races up the stairs. I can’t tell you how many times we acted out “Aladdin” or “Rapunzel” or “Elena,” with her always being the main character and me always being all the rest, including Sven the reindeer. At lunch, Grandpa would emerge from his work-at-home station to carry out “villain” roles.
Sometimes she’d remember her school and say, “I’m going back there someday.”
COVID made me sad and worried and, oftentimes, scared, especially for my grandchildren’s future. But, thanks to her parents’ careful explanations, she looked at it through the hopeful lens of a preschooler: “When it’s over, we’re going to the PARK!”
And, as the numbers ebbed, we added that to our options.
As restrictions eased, her world opened up. She returned to preschool, started having playdates with peers and went on vacations with her parents.
But she still wanted to come to our house, which was the best compliment ever.
As she got older, our fun became more sophisticated — we baked a Swiss roll cake; we created our own perfume using flower petals, food coloring and liquid soap; and, as the CDC reminded everyone to wash their hands, we wrote a book about a little girl and a shrinking bar of soap.
I was blessed to have so much time with her, visits that came to include her little brother, for whom she often was a spokesperson: “He doesn’t eat ketchup; he likes mustard.”
I was blessed to watch brother and sister learn and grow and always look out for each other. If one was offered a cookie, they’d take a second for their sibling. She helped him with his shoes. He hugged her at the end of every race through my kitchen.
I was blessed to have experienced such a crazy, exhausting, wonderful time.
But the thing about time, it never stops changing.
Now, she is on a new trajectory, one that will bring adventure and opportunity, but also consume most of her time.
I am excited to watch her bloom but I will be forever grateful for that pause, and that her visits provided a happy, hopeful escape from the madness of 2020 and its continued fallout.
Now, the world awaits her. And if the past two years have taught us anything, it is that now is what matters most.
Donna Vickroy is an award-winning reporter, editor and columnist who worked for the Daily Southtown for 38 years.