I spent last week in paradise. Not the big "P" Paradise, but a paradise of sorts - on Saranac Lake in the Adirondack Mountains.
We had a wonderful late summer family vacation. We swam, kayaked, hiked, and camped - within the limits of two kids under six and their aging and exercise-deprived parents. I watched my daughter jump off the diving board into the deep lake without her life preserver and swim to shore. And I hiked alongside my son to our campsite in the woods and fell asleep holding his hand in our tent. I was completely relaxed. I rarely checked my Blackberry (a real feat given my confessed proclivity toward Blackberry abuse). I ignored the mental list of "to-dos" that I had planned to accomplish remotely in my pre-vacation frenzy. (Forgetting the charger for our Netbook helped.)
There was one intrusion, though, on our summer idyll.
Kindergarten anxiety.
Mine.
I'm not, of course, entering kindergarten. (My school debut dates from the release of Let It Be, the enfranchisement of 18-year-olds, and the first Earth Day.)
My daughter is. On Monday. She's fine, I'm a wreck.
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