by Erika Matić – mother, taxpayer, former kindergarten applicant, and currently a full-time analyst of a four-year-old’s emotional state
There are many moments in parenting when you finally get the thing you have been desperately trying to get and immediately realise you may have made a terrible mistake.
You get the house.
You get the job.
You get the kindergarten spot.
And then you stand in your kitchen at 7:14 in the morning watching your four-year-old cry because she has to go to the place you spent two years desperately trying to get her into.
Because after all that waiting, my daughter finally got a spot in kindergarten. And for three days, everything was perfect.
Which, as any experienced parent knows, was obviously a trap.
The First Three Days: A Beautiful Lie
The first day went well.
The second day went well.
The third day went well.
She went in. She stayed. She seemed happy. No crying. No dramatic separation. No desperate clinging to my leg while I physically had to hand her over to another adult.
Nothing.
I was amazed. We were amazed. Her father and I looked at each other like two people who had accidentally discovered they had raised an emotionally resilient child.
“Maybe she likes it.”
“Maybe she’s ready.”
“Maybe we worried for nothing.”
Look at us. Optimistic. Naive. Basically children ourselves. We had survived the kindergarten transition in three days.
We should have known better.
Enter: Week Two
Then week two arrived. And suddenly my daughter understood. She was not going to kindergarten once. She was going again.
And again.
And again.
There would be another morning. And another. And another. This information appears to have been emotionally devastating. Because now, every day, she remembers.
We can have a perfectly normal afternoon.
Playing.
Drawing.
Eating.
Watching something.
Existing peacefully.
And then she suddenly remembers. “Tomorrow I have to go to kindergarten.” And the entire atmosphere changes.
Sadness. Tears. Silence. The face of a small person who has just been informed she has been sentenced to a five-day workweek.
Sometimes I genuinely admire the efficiency of her brain. Four years old and already experiencing Sunday evening dread.
The Father Has Been Promoted to Kindergarten Transport
Her father takes her in the morning. This is partly practical and partly because apparently I am now emotionally unfit for the morning shift.
He takes her. She goes. And once she is there?
She is okay.
This is the most confusing part. She is not spending the entire day crying. She is not desperately asking for us. She is not sitting by the door waiting for her parents to rescue her.
She is there.
She manages.
She participates.
She exists.
Then I come to pick her up and bring her home. The actual kindergarten experience appears to be mostly fine. The anticipation of kindergarten is apparently unbearable.
She doesn’t necessarily hate kindergarten. She hates the concept of having to go to kindergarten. Which, honestly, is very adult of her.
The Eating Situation
Then there is food. She is not eating. Because apparently the kindergarten transition required us to add another layer of parental anxiety.
Is she adjusting? Is she sad? Is she hungry? Is she eating enough?
Should I ask? Should I not ask? Should I casually ask? Should I pretend I don’t care so she doesn’t feel pressure?
Should I Google “four-year-old not eating at kindergarten” and spend forty minutes reading medical forums written by people who apparently believe one uneaten lunch is the beginning of civilisation’s collapse?
Probably.
Naturally, I do all of the above.
At home, we try not to make a big deal out of it. Because now we have learned that everything can become A Thing.
Food can become A Thing.
Kindergarten can become A Thing.
Tomorrow can become A Thing.
The phrase “See you tomorrow” can apparently become a psychological event.
So we are trying to be calm. Very calm. Suspiciously calm.
“Did you eat?”
“A little.”
“Okay.”
Internally: SHE HAS EATEN FOUR SPOONS OF ICE CREAM. IS THIS HOW IT ENDS?
And Then There Is Me
Of course, the hardest part is not actually watching her go. Her father takes her. She goes inside. She is okay. I pick her up. I bring her home.
Objectively, everything is functioning. But motherhood does not operate on objectivity. It operates on facial expressions.
And when your four-year-old looks sad because she knows she has to go somewhere tomorrow, you feel sad too.
Then you start wondering: Is she ready? Did we do this too early? Should we have waited? Are we pushing her? Should we keep her home? Will she adjust? How long does adjustment take? Is this normal? Am I making it worse by worrying?
And then comes the most irritating thought of all: I know this is good for her. I know.
I KNOW.
That doesn’t make it easier.
The Cruelty of Knowing Better
This is apparently what we are supposed to do.
We are supposed to let our children experience difficult things. We are supposed to let them separate from us. We are supposed to let them develop independence.
We are supposed to give them opportunities to make friends, learn routines, solve little problems, navigate emotions and become people outside of their parents.
All very healthy.
All very reasonable.
All deeply offensive when your child is sitting on the sofa looking sad because she has remembered Tuesday exists. Because as a parent, your instinct is always to remove the pain.
Child is sad?
Fix it.
Child is scared?
Fix it.
Child is crying?
Fix it.
But eventually you discover that you can’t fix every difficult emotion. Sometimes there is nothing to fix. Sometimes there is only something to accompany.
So we sit with her. We listen. We reassure her.
Dad will take you.
Mom will pick you up.
You will be safe.
You will come home.
And tomorrow will end.
Even when she doesn’t believe us.
The Part Nobody Warns You About
Nobody tells you that one of the hardest parts of your child’s independence is watching it begin.
When she was a baby, I wanted her to grow. When she was a toddler, I wanted her to become more independent. Now she is four and actually becoming independent.
And apparently I would like to cancel the entire process.
Excellent.
Maybe she just needs time.
Maybe one day she will wake up and simply say, “I’m going.”
Maybe she will run inside.
Maybe she will make friends.
Maybe she will eat her lunch.
Maybe she will come home and tell us about her day without immediately asking when she has to go again.
And eventually, perhaps, she will be the child who doesn’t need her father to walk her in.
She will just go. And I will stand there thinking: When did this happen?
Because that is the cruel little joke of parenting. You spend years preparing your child for the next stage.
And then, when the next stage arrives, you stand there emotionally devastated by your own success.
So Here We Are
We finally got the kindergarten place. After waiting. After applying. After worrying.
After wondering whether the system would ever allow my daughter to enter the building that apparently contains the most valuable resource in Croatia: a chair with her name on it.
She got in.
She went.
For three days, she was completely fine. Then week two happened.
Now she is sad when she thinks about going. She doesn’t eat much there. Her father takes her. She is okay once she gets there. I pick her up. We come home.
And every night, we repeat the reassurance. Tomorrow. Kindergarten. Dad takes you. Mom picks you up.
You are safe.
You are loved.
You can do this.
And maybe, slowly, she will believe us.
Maybe the sadness will fade before we even notice it happening.
Maybe one morning she will forget to be sad. Maybe she will be too busy telling us about something that happened with another child. Maybe she will start eating. Maybe she will start running into kindergarten.
And maybe, when that happens, I will miss this version of her.
The little girl who still needs reassurance. The little girl who remembers tomorrow. The little girl who still wants to stay home.
Because that’s the strange thing about motherhood.
You spend so much of your life preparing your child for the next stage. And then every time the next stage arrives, you quietly mourn the one you just left.
So yes. We are sad. She is sad. Her father is taking her. I am picking her up. Nobody is sleeping particularly peacefully.
But underneath all the sadness is something we know, even when we don’t feel it: She is growing. And growing is rarely graceful.
Sometimes it looks like crying in the morning.
Sometimes it looks like not eating lunch.
Sometimes it looks like remembering tomorrow and wishing it didn’t exist.
And sometimes it looks like a four-year-old walking into kindergarten without you, while you stand outside pretending you are completely fine.
Which, of course, you are not. You are her mother. You were never going to be fine. You were just going to let her go anyway.
And apparently, that is the job.
Erika Matić writes about motherhood, parenting, bureaucracy, emotional contradictions, and the increasingly suspicious realisation that every milestone advertised as “exciting” is actually another opportunity to question every decision you have ever made. She is currently learning that getting your child into kindergarten and getting your child to emotionally accept kindergarten are, unfortunately, two completely separate administrative procedures.
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