Preschool Graduation: My Pandemic Baby Is Graduating Preschool

Preschool graduation season. This is my love letter to the preschool era — the place that brought my pandemic baby (and me) back to life.

Pandemic Preschool Mom, I See You.

She was born during lockdown, swaddled in uncertainty, and raised through Zoom calls and color-coordinated masks. And now — somehow — she’s sprinting across the preschool yard in glitter shoes, shouting facts about anglerfish, and handing out Frozen Band-Aids, like she owns the place. It’s adorable. It’s absurd. And yes, I’ll be crying in the car after that final school pickup like Derek just died on Grey’s Anatomy, or - more relevant - Inside Out’s purple plush Bing Bong just faded into sparkles shouting, “Take her to the moon for me.”...

Preschool Graduation Season

We’ve been deep in it. Preschool. The world of rolly pollies, finger paint, bubble wands, and daily tantrums over tight shoes and apple slices cut the wrong way. We are living in this magical, messy, fleeting era where our kids are still actual babies — and somehow also full-blown people with opinions and moods and better social calendars than us.

Preschool is where they run wild in sparkle boots and superhero capes, negotiate snack trades, collect treasure (aka sparkly beads from the sandbox), and roll around on the ground like puppies because happiness is their default mode.

It’s One Big Thank You

I hope every family can look back on these days and feel deep gratitude for their preschool experience. No school is perfect, but when you find a gold nugget, you hold it tight and just sit back and watch its oiled machine churn brightly.

Let’s pause to say out loud: preschool teachers are saints in sneakers and cute sweaters — drying tears, flushing tiny toilets, and opening their arms for a hug, keeping our kids’ hearts warm and open, soft and seen. They lead circle time like monarchs: everyone gets a turn, can have a say, and even a hair-styling sesh — if they choose.

And when you drop your kid off forty-five minutes late because of a cereal meltdown or a missing stuffy that simply had to come along for the morning commute? No problem. You still get a “Good morning!” like tardiness is a rite of passage. Hair’s a mess? Two different shoes? Wearing a full-on Frozen 2 Elsa costume on a random Tuesday? Of course. Nothing to see here.

Dropping Off Tiny Humans

Preschool morning drop-off just hits you. I don’t think I ever got back in my car without feeling something deeply. Something happy. Sweet. Hard. Hilarious. On the yard, as you drop their backpack in a pile of metallic colors and embroidered names and initials. Many mornings, their whole bodies squeeze into your legs — like a butterfly trying to squeeze back into a cocoon. Other mornings, you easily let go of that tiny hand. You watch tiny reunions. Teacher hugs. Dramatic gasps at new shoes, ouchie Band-Aids, or a sparkly rock pulled out of a backpack.

These friendships are real. Messy and miniature and a little bit sticky — but so real. You’re watching their first best friends, their first play-by-the-rules arguments, their first “We’re playing cats — do you wanna play?” moments unfold in real time. And somehow, that makes the apple slice meltdown totally worth it.

And soon, this little window of time ends.

The real stuff — the magic — happens in between everything else: overfilled bubble baths. Hopping across the bubbling stream in the preschool yard. Imaginary worlds. Messy art tables. Chaotic bedroom floors. Silk scarves as magical power tokens. Rainbow popsicles. Gasping at honeybees in the garden. These are the good old days — and somehow, we know it even while they’re happening.

And I Know She’ll Be Fine

But ok, ok, it’s not all sparkly rainbow moments. This is the era of tiny, enormous feelings. I’ve taken ten pages of notes while watching Dr. Becky at 1 a.m. I’ve cursed the name of “gentle parenting” while still doing my best to practice it. And I’ve got a cart full of children’s books about bravery and kindness and big emotions — all the things, by the way, I’m still learning to do as an adult.

But the hard stuff keeps me present. It keeps me awake. I know I’m doing my best, and I know I’ve got this. And this preschool village? It’s been a huge part of that confidence in myself.

And that’s the kicker — our kids? They’re going to be fine. We’ve got them.

This transition, this nostalgia, this ache in our chests? It’s mostly about the adults in the room.

Preschool Graduation - It's Really My Heartbreak

Our kiddos will go to a new school, miss a few friends, cry deeply, feel the shift, and then, move on. It’s like summer camp. Your bestie’s not there? You whine and cry to stay home, but then the moment you meet a kid who hands you a giant chunk of your favorite color of Play-Doh and wants to invent a superhero game with you, you’re good.

But moms? Pandemic moms?

We’re not ready. We don’t need this, you guys.

We don’t want more change. We’re still trying to regulate our nervous systems from giving birth in isolation and surviving babyhood on Zoom. Yes, we can laugh about it now — the color-coordinated masks, the “don’t touch anything” paranoia — but that trauma lives in our bones. And this preschool community? It healed us.

Preschool Brought Us a Non-Zoom Village

We didn’t just survive. We connected. In parking lots and at duck ponds. Through mango stand tantrums and bounce house birthday parties. Through the classroom group chat — which was either popping off with heart emojis and “Who wants to meet at the park?” or dead silent and awkward in a way that somehow felt just as intense. Either way, we kept showing up. This was the first real village many of us ever found.

I remember sitting on the floor, pregnant, watching the world fall apart on the news — riots, masks, death counts. I wondered if my kid would ever grow up in a normal world.

And then somehow — we made it out. The isolation cracked open like that lava monster in Moana — sprouting green clover, pink flowers, and long-lost smiles. Masks peeled off. Hand sanitizer left behind. COVID tests no longer a staple in the medicine cabinet. We found teachers. Friends. Drop-off hugs. Familiar faces. Tiny voices shouting across the yard. Moms lingering just long enough to say “Same.”

Preschool was where my village bloomed. It gave me my first real mom-friend community. The first normal thing in years.

So here I am — counting the weeks until summer, blindly registering for camps, smiling through preschool prom planning, and talking about four-year-old graduation gowns like it’s totally normal.

We’re Closing the Book

Preschool graduation means this soft, sparkly, messy, magical chapter is ending. And the next one will be great. I can’t wait to watch my daughter become a full-fledged person. To hear even more deep sea anglerfish facts. And watch her analyze friendship dynamics with a bigger vocabulary. To watch her finally just want to wear two shoes that always match .. I mean, maybe.

Elementary School chaos, here we come.

But this part? Saying goodbye. Well, I guess the truth is, when something was really this beautiful, you should feel a little wrecked saying goodbye.

And maybe years from now, when my daughter smells glue sticks or sees a certain brand of markers or hears a voice like her teacher’s laugh — maybe she’ll remember.

Maybe she’ll feel it in her body: That was a place I was safe. A place I was loved.

And me? I’ll remember it all.

Because just like hers, my heart was all the way in.