Seventeen Years

Seventeen years ago was The Princess’ first day of pre-school.

Seventeen years ago, They carried out a plan. I did too.

With military-like precision, my husband and I woke at the crack of dawn, he for work and I for getting ready for the day. A two-and-a-half year old and a six week old did not make for leaving things to chance. In a bathroom barely big enough for one person—and one in which I had been unable to fit in while pregnant—my husband and I took turns, one showering and getting ready and the other feeding the baby and making sure the big sister didn’t overly love her to death. We dressed in clothes already laid out and gave out last minute advice. We made sure to eat a healthy breakfast—still being newbies, we assumed that was the only way to start the day.

Seventeen years ago, They shopped for supplies. I did too.

The Princess and I bought school clothes. She’d always had specific ideas of what she would and wouldn’t wear, and I went along with it because it wasn’t a battle I was planning to fight. We picked out dresses and pants and tops that matched (and in some cases, really, really didn’t). And hair bows and barrettes. We chose a colorful book bag and marveled at what a big girl she was. We couldn’t wait for this day and counted down to it.

Seventeen years ago, They left on their journey. We did too.

We strapped into car seats and infant seats and seat belts on a bright sunny morning and drove to preschool, listening to our Music Together tapes and singing along. The sky was a bright blue and so clear we could see the New York City skyline from the top of the hill. I pointed it out.

Seventeen years ago, we accomplished the first of many goals. They did not.

The buildings fell while The Princess was at school and while I sat rocking my new baby and wondering what kind of world I’d brought her into, They danced, hoping to see us fail. But we didn’t. We got knocked down then, and some might say we’ve been knocked down—or are seriously wobbling—now, but their dream didn’t happen. 

Mine did. 

The Princess started school and her journey to becoming a successful human. I don’t remember the specifics of what she did that day. I know she colored, because it’s preschool, and glitter became a part of my house, as much as the mirrors and furniture that inhabited it. I know she bossed the other kids around, because it’s in her DNA and she still does that. I know she asked a ton of questions. And I know she loved it. In the years since, she and her sister have carried on their school journeys, learning the value of education over ignorance, hope over fear—even though sometimes that wobbles, too—and kindness, love and compassion over hatred. All mixed in with a healthy dose of humor, snark and yes, a little back-talk, because, well, we’re human, not perfect.

They learned the rules of the sandbox. They navigate the evil world of girls. They study hard. They laugh and have fun. And they have big plans to change the world, not by knocking down buildings or crashing airplanes, but by finding their voices and using them.

The Princess is loud. Her voice WILL be heard, regardless of how you feel about it.

I will never forget that day. In between the crayons and the hair bows, I will always remember the sounds and the looks and the terror (as well as the kindness). I will never forget the near misses and the friends who were lost. But this time around, instead of feeling ashamed of how much I looked forward to this day seventeen years ago, I’m going to feel proud. 

Because ultimately, they failed. We didn’t.