I did way more school than I needed to just to end up doing what I wanted and becoming a comic artist anyway (nineteen years!! I have an honours degree!!), so I got pretty adept at the ol’ final project. There’s a part of me that craves external validation? No, you don’t say.

They do kindergarten intake interviews now, which is super cute and, for us, mostly consisted of Momo’s teacher being like ‘so, she’s pretty stubborn when she thinks she’s right, huh?’ and me shrugging helplessly and gesturing to myself.

But the feeling I got going in was uncannily like when you’re about to hand in your final project, like… here, here is the thing I have spent five years of my life on. All the research, all the labour, all the planning, every decision between this parenting technique and that, the sleepless nights, the three-hour crying jags (hers and mine), every tantrum, every lost stuffed animal, every paired sock, every bottle made at 2AM, every load of pee-soaked laundry, every lullabye, it all led to…

…this. This moment. And that’s what the first week of school was for me: the first reckoning of How I Did. I put my heart on a scale and someone weighed her against a feather, and they will pass judgement on my sins as a parent.

They’ll also, like, teach her the days of the week and stuff, I guess? That sounds more likely. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just handed in my last, greatest final project.