Both my children went off to pre-school and kindergarten with hardly a hitch. I took them to the classroom, the teacher greeted them, they stashed their stuff in a cubby. The minute they saw toys different from those at home, and, therefore, infinitely superior, Mom and Dad were old news. I can't say either of them was that excited to be picked up after school and returned to boredom of home.
My oldest got left at pre-school once or twice after her morning session was over. The teacher kept her busy and included her in the afternoon group, until I got the message that her dad had forgotten to pick her up. Since I was working full-time, and he was the caregiver, I dispatched him to the pre-school for a very late pick-up. My oldest daughter was not in the least perturbed.
Today I dropped Don off at the Senior Center for the first time. He had put it off for weeks. Even this morning he swore, and I mean that in the fullest sense of the verb, he was not going, that he promised to go tomorrow. He said he had nothing in common with "those people." The truth is, he had too much in common with them.
When we walked in to the room both of us were holding back tears. I did not want to leave him there by himself. The air in the room smelled of "lonely" to me - a little stale, with an underlying scent of institutional soap. Even though several small groups in the room happily chatted and played cards, they ignored him.
After twenty minutes a staff person arrived, greeted us, and worked on making him feel welcome. She found him a place to sit, stash his coat, and get a drink. She explained the schedule for the day, and a few people joined him at his table. I got up to get back to work, and Don gave me a pitiful look.
"Don't leave me," his eyes said. "I don't want to be here. Being here means I'm old."
I promised to return, and cried all the way back to work. Transitions are a bitch.
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