I stammered, resisted, and twisted myself to escape the restraint of the of the car seat. No matter how loud I bellowed the car kept driving. I screamed in desperation, “please! Mom… I don’t want to go to daycare!,” but it was too late, my mom was already pulling up into the parking lot. Defeated, I sat back in my seat.
I trotted with my mom to the front desk. My lips puttered up. A middle-aged lady greeted us. The air was stuffy, emanating with particles of play dough and magic marker. The double doors ahead had opened, and Deb led the way into the classroom. My feet took effort to pick up. It felt as if I was walking on a wet coat of Elmer’s glue. I spotted various signs, they were written in English, the alphabet was foreign to me. I had grown up in a Russian family, and only knew a few words in English.
A year later, daycare wasn’t so bad. I remember running around the playground, shaded by the grand oak tree. Playing duck duck goose with my friends. Talking to my favorite instructors. It’s a memory I will cherish for long. At the time though, I thought I had found my place, but I’d have to move on to Kindergarten.