School marks a significant milestone in a child’s life. There’s something undeniably grown-up about sending your little one off to public school: placing them in the care of strangers, encouraging them to make friends, and teaching them the importance of sitting still. You buy the lunchbox, the backpack, the stylish new shoes, and those socks that actually match. You swap out worn jeans for fresh ones, get their hair trimmed, and have discussions about rules and listening. And then, you let them go. Or at least, you try to.
In just a month, Mia, my fourth child, will celebrate her fifth birthday. Five years filled with birthday cakes, beach days, family snuggles, scraped knees, and silly jokes. She’s learned to write her name, swim, and ride a bike. There have been countless milestones for her baby book that I never got around to creating (being the fourth child has its perks!). And now, it’s time for school.
We’re lucky; the local public school is a quick stroll from our house. The staff is friendly, and the campus is tidy. While the district isn’t the best—actually, it’s quite lacking—it provides a safe learning environment, which I know is a privilege not everyone has. Unsure if homeschooling would suit us, we decided to give her a shot at traditional school.
Today was orientation, an event we’d been preparing for weeks. We picked out a cute dress, laced up her new pink sneakers, and braided her wild curls. We headed to the school with a mix of excitement and nerves.
I anticipated that Mia might be shy. This wasn’t her first rodeo; she takes her time warming up to new adults and, more often than not, doesn’t warm up at all. We’d introduced her to various group activities, like gymnastics and art classes, but the anxiety lingered.
When it came time for us—her dad, her brother Jake, and me—to leave her with her new classmates and teacher, she firmly refused to stay. I’m talking about a zero percent chance of me walking out of that room without her. Our choices boiled down to essentially forcing her into the classroom while she cried or bringing her along to the parents’ session and hoping the first day of school would be better.
With school starting next week, we realized we wouldn’t be allowed to stay with her in class or even walk her to her classroom. We couldn’t volunteer for some time, either. With around 499 other kids in the school, what were the odds that she would feel comfortable enough to stay?
Amidst the chaos of tears, we decided that one of us should stay to help her transition. There was a brief discussion about who would take on that role, and I ended up being the one. Mia clung to my leg as I encouraged her to step toward the classroom. Each time I tried to guide her, she only clung tighter. It was like trying to pry a stubborn octopus off my ankle!
I attempted to enlist the teacher’s help. More tears. I tried to assure her that other kids would want to play with her. More tears. I even dangled the promise of fun activities afterward. “We can go swimming! Let’s finish here and grab fries!” But none of it worked.
We stood there, her gripping my ankle while I held on to the door handle. The minutes dragged on—what felt like an eternity but was really just 15 minutes—filled with her sobs and my silent dread. My heart ached for her, overwhelmed by fear of the unknown and a deep need for comfort. In that moment, I bent down and whispered, “Mia, do you want to go home?” She nodded ever so slightly, “Yes.” And just like that, we left.
The me of years ago might have pushed through this moment, thinking others would judge me for not valuing education or for being too lenient. I would have worried that people would think I was raising a child who would fail to adapt to challenges because I didn’t force her to face her fears.
But today, I refused to let societal pressures dictate my parenting choices. I chose to honor Mia’s feelings and find another way forward.
What Does Walking Away Teach a Child?
Does leaving something that causes distress send the message that it’s okay to quit? Does the idea of pushing through pain truly instill dedication, or does it merely reinforce that success often comes at the cost of happiness? Where do we draw the line between achievement and suffering?
For me, pain and sadness are not victories in parenting. They don’t teach lessons; they send the message that when a child needs you most, you walked away. Mia is currently unfazed by her missed opportunity to start school. She’s scared and doesn’t want to go, and I respect that. I don’t know what the future holds for us, but we’ll continue our homeschooling efforts with support from our family, friends, and nanny, giving Mia the space she needs to grow and explore.
She may come to embrace school or not, but one thing is certain: we won’t abandon her when she needs us.
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Summary
Navigating the start of school can be overwhelming for both children and parents. In this heartfelt reflection, a mom recounts her decision to honor her child’s fears about starting kindergarten rather than forcing her to go. She emphasizes the importance of understanding and supporting children through their anxieties, questioning traditional notions of success and the lessons learned through discomfort. The journey continues with a focus on homeschooling, giving the child space to grow.