My last playgroup. Like, ever.
After eight years of weekly meet ups (excepting that one crazy year when I worked fulltime) with other mums, I had my last one last Tuesday. Next year my Small Boy goes off to 'school'. A couple of days at Kindy and two days at the ECDP where they will get him ready (listening and talking-wise) for prep.
I thought I would be sad. I thought I might even cry. But in actual fact, as I walked through the door for the last time, I breathed a sigh of relief.
It's not that I haven't loved playgroup. I really have. I've made some (quite possibly) lifelong friends. I've had help and advice and support when I've needed it (sometimes when I haven't needed it too, if you know what I mean).
I've sort of grown up at playgroup. I've gone from a brand new mother, gingerly laying a milky newborn on a blanket (far from all the other children, brandishing cars and trucks) to the sort of mother who can watch her brood with one eye while scoffing down tea and biscuits and recounting the latest antics of her tribe.
source: unknown
But I feel okay that that part of my life is over. Playgroup used to be the place I went to for conversation. Now I have conversations with Mr Z and Miss Piggy. Playgroup used to be the place I went to for support.
Now I can giggle or cry (as the occasion demands) with girlfriends over coffee once the kids are in bed. No more nappies, no more mashed bananas, no more waiting up for 11pm feeds.
Feels kind of liberating.
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