This morning was harder for me than kindergarten ever was, although the big girl was still just as calm and confident now as she was seven years ago.
Maybe that makes it worse. Or maybe it allows me to be the weak one.
This morning, bikes and backs laden with all of the new school supplies, Beth and I rode to her new junior high. There was too much stuff for her to take alone, plus I wanted to be there to make sure she knew where to go. I didn't know where to go either, but I was still worried that all staff would speak to us only in French.
I went to bed last night with French conversations going on in my head. I was a bit nervous.
"Bonjour. Nous appellons Evelyn and Beth. Je ne comprends pas Francais, mais Beth parle un ... picito, non,...un peau. Ou est le ...Grade 7...salon?"
Obviously I don't speak French. Beth doesn't either, but now she's immersed in a classroom of fluent 12 year olds. I'm worried but she doesn't appear to be. She flipped through her French conjugation book last night and said "I think I've got this figured out". She takes the academic approach to getting by, and armed with her books and some quickly-made new friends, she'll be fine. I hope and pray.
We found her room with the help of a very English-speaking custodian (in fact, I heard no French at all in the hallways) and she piled her bags with all of the other bags at the back of the classroom. It looked like they were about to head off on a two week camping trip. So much stuff! She found a seat and I had to leave her, without even a hug. I was tempted to stand by the door to see if she was okay, if she would speak or be spoken to. I did that when I first left her at daycare years ago, listening to see if she'd cry for me or be fine.
She was always fine, and she'll be fine now too. I'll just sit here today and worry. I think that as her mom, that's my right.