Things I Remember on My Daughter's Morning

I should start by saying that this essay is a rather doting parent's record.
I am aware of that to some extent, but I want to write down my thoughts just as they are.

Dropping off and picking up children at nursery school.
It is one of the things that troubles many moms and dads during this time of year.
I am no exception.

The other day, my two-year-old daughter started nursery school.
It is my role to take her to the nursery school. Starting yesterday, my life of taking my daughter to school before heading to work began.

On the first day, my daughter did not cry.
When I handed her over to the nursery teacher, she was picked up and taken to the classroom. When I peeked from a distance, she was standing there with a blank look on her face. She probably didn't understand the situation well. I don't know if I should feel relieved seeing that, but I whispered, "I'm sorry..." in my heart and left the scene.

When I returned from work, I rushed to my daughter first. Then, just as always, she was there smiling and saying, "Daddy, let's play," with a warmth and fragility like soap bubbles.
I instinctively picked her up and touched her plump cheeks.
And although I asked her about nursery school many times, she didn't answer anything.

In the contact book, the teacher wrote that my daughter had been crying for a while that day.

The next morning, as I managed to get my daughter into my car and was heading to the nursery school, she started saying,

"I'm not going to the teacher's place, I'm going to Mommy's place."

"Mommy is at work. The teacher is kind and loves you, too. It's okay. Nursery school is fun."

Even though I said words to reassure her, deep down, I was filled with my own worries.

When we arrived in front of the classroom, my daughter stood in front of me as if to block my path. She was looking up at me while holding a blanket to her mouth and sucking her thumb. What clear eyes she has.

Until now, whenever my daughter cried or was troubled, I would always hug her, saying things like,
"Come here, what's wrong?"

"There, there, it's okay."
"Yes, yes, I love you."
But I couldn't do that this time. I had to send her off with a smile so she could feel even a little bit at ease.

Suppressing the urge to hug her, I stroked her head, sliding my hand over her fluffy hair.
I had to suppress my heart. Again, I whispered, "I'm sorry" in my heart.
When I entrusted her to the teacher and she was picked up, my daughter reached out both hands toward me and cried out loudly,
"Daddy, Daddy, Da... Daddy!!"

I walked away from the classroom with a smile.

I walk toward the car. My daughter is probably still crying.
What is she thinking right now? Does she feel her life is in danger? Did she think I was a cruel father who put her in danger?
When and what will make her stop crying? Will she talk to the teacher about something? Will the other children do anything mean to her?

I remember dropping off my son, who started going to kindergarten last year. When my wife had errands, I would do the drop-offs instead.
On days he went to kindergarten, my son would always throw a tantrum from the morning, crying and screaming,

"I'm not going! I'm not going! I'm not going!"

It was always a struggle to get him into the car, and that alone would exhaust me.
However, when he saw the kindergarten teacher, he changed like a different person. He would start preparing himself calmly with no expression, like a robot.
When the teacher said, "Okay, wave goodbye to Daddy," he would smile and wave. That smile was one he never showed at home. It was obvious that it was fake. If you looked closely at my son's eyes, they were always filled with tears. He was desperately holding them back so they wouldn't spill.
He still throws tantrums almost every day, but when I think about my son's feelings during these days, I find myself unable to scold him too harshly.

I start the car engine and head to work.
The next thing that vaguely came to my mind was the sight of a Japanese macaque parent and child I saw at the monkey mountain in the zoo.
The mother monkey protects her baby with her body to keep it safe from danger. If other monkeys try to approach, she threatens them. The baby monkey also repeatedly leaves and returns to its mother, and seems to feel safe when they are touching.
I like that sight, and when I go to the zoo, I end up watching the monkeys on the monkey mountain for hours.

Truth be told, I want to hide my children and keep them from leaving this safe, narrow world.
I want to keep them away from things that hurt them or have bad influences, and have them know only the bright parts of this world.
I end up thinking such cruel things.
Even though I know it means robbing them of their potential.
Love and violence are two sides of the same coin.

Parents must help their children become independent. To live as themselves in society, they must expand their world.
Letting go of a child's hand little by little is the role of a parent.
A time will surely come when I can be happier about that than I am now.

Sometimes, I hurt or sadden them with my own weakness or clumsiness. But the world can hurt children even more deeply, and they will likely see ugliness that our family never showed them.
I imagine them being shaken when that happens. Please, I hope they don't get used to it. It's okay to stay weak. I want to support them for as long as possible so they can live without being tainted by such things.

Someday, would you tell me in detail about the world you see?
For a long time, doing nothing, just blankly. While watching the monkeys on the monkey mountain, perhaps.

When I get home, I will hug my children.