I didn’t have the time to properly recount FoH’s first day of preschool.

I’ll get right to it : it was pretty horrific.

Which I was just not prepared for. At all. I know that we are extremely lucky to have a child who breezes through pretty much all situations — new, social, stressful. You name it, FoH, kicks some adjustable ass at it.

However, I knew the morning was doomed when he woke up before me screaming {emphasis on screaming here, People}: mommy I no go to that school!

I broke three of my tenant parenting rules within five minutes. To even get him out of bed I bribed him with an early morning movie on Netflix and a lollipop for breakfast. And told him that he could have a happy meal from McDonald’s for lunch.

The movie was a good, brief distraction. Getting him into the car was much easier than I thought {more lollipop bribery}. It was the car ride itself where I knew all hope was gone.

No sooner had I pulled out of the driveway when FoH uttered the most dreaded words of, I have to poopy, mommy.

No, you don’t kid. You’re bluffing.

This is not an usual phrase to hear when we’re about to do something he doesn’t particularly want to do. Except this time, he kept saying it.

When we arrived to his school, I felt like I needed to take him to the bathroom, instead of just dropping him off — which is what you were supposed to do.

But how could I just pull up in a circle, have some stranger yank him out of the car, when he was starting to shout, I gotta go REAL BAD NOW MOMMY.

So. I parked the car, and we walked in. Nothing could have prepared me for the def con nine situation in front of us.

A bomb had gone off. A bomb of toddler and pre-k children. Some flailing all over the place on the floor — limbs flying every which way. Others huddled in corners with their blankets over their heads, sobbing, uncontrollably.

FoH took one look at this, and bolted.

Literally, People. Bolted. His little legs have never moved so fast. I took off after him. Tears quickly ensued. I picked him up. He did the back arch so I ended up hauling him in the football hold with him on my side.

Screaming. Shouting. More tears.

In we walk into his calm classroom where about six other children had already arrived who were ALL playing happily. They look terrified when they saw FoH.

I could not get him to calm down for the life of me and realized there was only one thing to do: leave.

And I did. I did not cry. I was too worked up and stressed to cry. I was just concerned that he calm down and feel better.

People. It was like every single one of my worst parenting nightmares over the last three years come to life, condensed into a ten minute timespan.

I was thoroughly drained. Thankfully, when Maman and my father in law picked him up they were quick to report that he was very happy.

I just want to keep it real for you. In case you think it’s all pink roses over here all the time. It’s not. This is real life; real FoH.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.