Today Beaver is leaving nursery. After three years.
The cocky me of months ago, ‘Oh we’ll all be fine,’ is suddenly nowhere to be seen. Departing us when we need her most.
I feel adrift. As if the rug is being pulled out from under me. Like Debra Winger in Terms of Endearment when she says goodbye to her children. OK, maybe not that bad.
To Beaver, the last day of nursery means nothing more than wearing your pink skater dress that you’re NEVER allowed to wear to nursery. It means fancy clips in your hair. And sandals that are forbidden by nursery rules. Because hey, what are they going to do? Kick us out on our last day?
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