While many parents shed tears over their children entering kindergarten, I found myself immersed in my own worries. After five years of a freewheeling lifestyle—sleeping in, waking up whenever, and doing as we pleased—the thought of returning to a strict schedule made me anxious. My history with timeliness was dismal; I’d been late 77 times and absent 53 during high school, and I had even been let go from three corporate jobs. Panic attacks began to plague me, disrupting my sleep and appetite. On top of that, we lived just outside the bus zone, which meant I faced 360 trips to school over the year—not counting the multiple times I’d have to return for forgotten items.
The night before, I conducted four mock runs to the school: one on foot, one on a bike, one on a scooter, and one by car. We settled on the scooter, and I put my daughter to bed three hours early. I spent the night tossing and turning, obsessively checking the weather. At 4 a.m., I prepared her snack, tucked a sweet note into her bag, and paced anxiously until dawn broke. Pancakes, a new outfit, fresh socks, and shiny shoes—everything was set for this big day.
As we ventured out to retrieve her scooter from the garage, my husband offered us a ride to school. This wasn’t part of the plan, but I accepted. I shoved the scooter in the trunk, and as we sped past neighbors documenting their kids’ first day, I felt a wave of embarrassment wash over me. I instructed my daughter not to wave or make eye contact.
Once we arrived at the school, the chaos of parents and children engulfed me. The familiar scent of the school brought back memories, and I felt a wave of nausea. We maneuvered through the crowd to her cubby, checked in, and completed the necessary paperwork. Red marker for the A group, signing in the back-and-forth folder, joining the PTO, and sorting snacks—it was all a blur. After a quick hug and a kiss, I was free.
The trek home was sweltering, scooter slung over my shoulder and helmet in hand. I managed to squeeze in a couple of loads of laundry before heading back to pick her up. The routine of lunch, piano practice, playdates, dinner, bath time, and bedtime stories became the new normal for Tuesday through Thursday. By Thursday evening, we were exhausted and opted for takeout. Instead of a bath, I wiped her down with baby wipes and settled for a mint instead of teeth brushing.
By Friday, I had forgotten her sneakers for PE twice and neglected to return her library books. We skipped the parent potluck dinner and RSVP’d “no” to her first birthday invitation, even though we were available. The scooter, usually parked neatly, was carelessly tossed aside, and when I realized I left it behind, I thought, “Forget it.”
Our sensible snack transformed into chocolate pudding and cookies, accompanied by Fanta masquerading as juice. I guzzled Frappuccinos like they were the last on earth. The influx of school emails, photo requests, potluck invitations, and meeting notices was overwhelming. When I dropped her off that Friday, she asked me to stay and help her draw the solar system. Feeling burnt out, I fumbled through my response—how many planets were there? I hadn’t a clue.
The other mom shot me a disapproving glance when I mentioned Google. “Does she really Google at home?” she asked incredulously, not realizing my daughter had access to multiple devices.
I felt the weight of mommy guilt crash down on me, even though I couldn’t pinpoint its source. The confines of the school felt stifling. After spending my life breaking free from institutions, here I was, shackled again for the next thirteen years—with a five-year-old and a scooter in tow. I could feel the sweat pooling as I just wanted to escape.
At home, I plopped onto the couch, staring blankly at the wall until it was time to pick her up, only to realize I was barefoot halfway there. I decided dinner was off the table for the night—we’d have ice cream and wine instead. The week was over; we had merely survived, and snuggling together felt like a small victory.
Later, my daughter confessed, “Mom, I’m the only one who gets juice at school.” I was taken aback. “The only one? What does everyone else drink?” “Water.” She wanted me to pack her water instead to make her friend jealous. I panicked, “You can’t say things like that at school!”
I hadn’t yet made any mom friends, and I feared I was losing the few I had. This parenting gig was not what I imagined; I should be off somewhere living a laid-back life, perhaps selling medical marijuana in Colorado.
“Mom, is it okay if I pledge allegiance to the flag?” she asked. “Sure,” I replied, already dreaming of sleeping in again. But I understood that unlike my previous jobs, I couldn’t quit this one. The journey was ahead, and I had no choice but to embrace it. Frappuccino in hand, I prepared for the bumpy road ahead.
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Summary
The experience of sending a child off to school can be overwhelming, filled with anxiety and unexpected challenges. From preparing for a structured routine after years of freedom to dealing with the chaos of school logistics, parents often find themselves navigating a new world. Balancing responsibilities while managing the emotions that come with this transition can lead to feelings of guilt and frustration. Ultimately, embracing the journey—no matter how bumpy—becomes a necessity.