Sunday's new school couldn't be less like the school she attended last year. We loved last year's school, and we love this one, make no mistake, but I do marvel at the differences.
Last year's school was bright and colourful and spanking clean. This year's school is earthy and natural, the brightest colours in the place are on the kids, this year's school is muddy and haphazard and ... mysterious.
Last year's dressing up rail was a parade of delightful outfits, various characters and animals, lots of sparkly fairy wings.
This year's dressing up suitcase is a unknown bundle of weird and wonderful - second-hand hats and homemade creations, scarves in every natural dyed colour known to childkind.
Last year's play-dough was glittery and aromatic, cut with bright plastic shape cutters, this year's play-dough is ... yup, naturally dyed, and slowly all melding into the same shade of brown, moulded into gnomes and toadstools.
Last year's outside was a big netted trampoline, climbing frames and a guinea-pig in a hutch. This year's outside is a vintage swing-set, a climbable tree, a teepee and a friendly Great Dane to pet through a fence.
Last year's school had the alphabet on the wall, this year's school has a surfboard in the corner.
But what last year's school and this year's school have in common is this: a teacher whom Sunday loves. A woman who sees my baby girl, who gets her idiosyncrasies and laughs at her jokes, who guides her through these first fragile years of learning about group interaction and standing on one's own two small feet.
Two utterly different sides of the same warm, secure coin. How lucky to be exposed to both.