Tonight I am in class. In fact I’ve been here since 8 am. Monday is the day that I’m on campus for 14 hours. It means that I get three of five classes out of the way in one day, which makes the rest of the week easier, but it also means that there is one day when I don’t get to do bus drop off OR pick up. It means the kid might not even be awake when I have to leave the house.
We’re very lucky. Joe’s boss has agreed to let him work from home on Mondays so he’s there for drop off and pick up, and this week he has an added Monday responsibility.
This week the kid starts dance class.
It’s a class I signed her up for after getting a recommendation from one of the other pre-school moms. It’s not like ballet, which she seemed to find too slow to hold her attention. It’s acro-dance, which fits in nicely with her gymnastics. There’s cartwheels and flipping. She’s going to love it.
And I don’t get to watch her loving it. At least not for the next three months.
Since she was born I have almost always been the one signing her up for these activities, participating in some with her, seeing how much she enjoys them – or the times she didn’t so much.
Now I’m not there. Not only am I not there to see her in her little leotard dancing away, I’m not at the dinner table getting the chance to hear all about it either. And it hurts my heart.
I know this was part of the deal when I came back to school. I was going to be away from home for 15 hours a week, plus travel time, plus time between classes when it just doesn’t make sense to go home. And I have time at home stuck at my desk, writing assignments and papers. Who knows what my exam schedule will bring.
I know in my head that her daddy is there, and I know that she’s having so much fun she’s probably not even thinking about me not being there, but in my heart I worry. I probably won’t even stop.