While many parents were shedding tears over their little ones embarking on their kindergarten journey, I found myself consumed by my own worries. For five years, we’ve embraced a carefree lifestyle—sleeping and waking at our leisure, doing whatever we desired. Schedules and routines? Not my forte. My corporate experience is littered with firings, and my high school record boasts over 77 tardies and 53 absences. Anxiety was creeping in. I couldn’t eat, sleep, or think clearly. To make matters worse, we didn’t qualify for bus service since we lived three-quarters of a mile from the school. That meant I would be making 360 trips back and forth over 180 days, excluding those inevitable returns for forgotten items like snow pants.
The night before, I conducted four test runs to the school: on foot, on a bike, on a scooter, and by car. We decided on the scooter and turned in early. I tossed and turned, obsessively checking the forecast. By 4 a.m., I was preparing her snack, slipping a love note into her bag, and pacing anxiously until dawn. Pancakes awaited us for breakfast, along with her new outfit—dress, socks, shoes, and headband. We were ready!
Just a block into our scooting adventure, my husband drove by and offered us a ride. It wasn’t part of the plan, but I accepted. I tossed the scooter in the trunk, and as we breezed past neighbors capturing their kids’ first-day moments, I felt a pang of shame and instructed my daughter not to wave at anyone.
We squeezed into the school alongside throngs of parents and children, and suddenly, the nostalgia hit me hard. The distinct smell of the school and the chaotic energy flooded back. We navigated to her cubby, dropping off her gear and signing in. Red marker for “A” group, a red folder into the file, PTO sign-up, pick-up sheet, an extra set of clothes, and snacks that included brown rice cakes and water bottles. A quick hug, air kiss, and it was time to leave.
I trudged home in the September heat, scooter slung over my shoulder, exhausted and drenched in sweat. I managed a couple of loads of laundry before I had to turn around for pick-up. The day flowed with lunch, piano practice, a playdate, dinner, bath time, books, brushing teeth, and then bed. This routine continued through the week, and by Thursday, we succumbed to takeout for dinner. Instead of a bath, I gave her a quick wipe down with baby wipes, and teeth brushing turned into a mint.
By Friday, I had forgotten her sneakers for gym class twice and neglected to return library books. We skipped the parent potluck dinner (more takeout) and RSVP’d “no” to her birthday invitation, even though we were free that weekend. Our scooter, usually parked neatly, lay tossed aside. When I realized I left it behind, I thought, “Forget it; I’m not going back.”
Our sensible snack evolved into chocolate pudding, Nilla cookies, and Fanta pretending to be juice. I was guzzling Grande Frappuccinos as if they were going out of style. The flood of school emails, photo requests, potluck picnics, flu vaccine forms, PTO meetings, and open house nights was overwhelming. On Friday, as I dropped her off, she asked me to stay and help draw the solar system. I was fried, fumbling with my lines around the sun.
“Mom, how many planets are there in the solar system?” she asked.
“I don’t know… 12? 8? 10? Didn’t they remove one? Just Google it when you get home. Can’t you draw a rainbow or a slice of pizza like the other kids?” One mom shot me a disapproving look, asking, “Does she really Google at home? Can you imagine if your kindergartener had an iPad? That would be outrageous!”
Well, my little one has an iPod, iPhone, PC, and a laptop.
Mommy guilt was creeping in, and I didn’t even know why. I felt trapped. School is an institution, and I had spent my life trying to escape it. Now, I was back for another 13 years, this time dragging my daughter and her scooter along. I began to sweat, desperate to escape. I couldn’t recall this mom’s name to excuse myself and leave. I struggled to remember the teacher’s names, the other kids, and even my daughter’s new friend’s parents.
At home, I plopped down on the couch for the duration of kindergarten and stared blankly at the wall. I started walking back for pick-up and realized I was barefoot. Deciding that dinner was off the table, I declared it was ice cream for the kid and wine for the adults. The week was over; we had semi-survived.
“Mom? I’m the only one at school who gets juice.”
“Really? The only one? What does everyone else drink?”
“Water.”
“Do you want me to give you water instead?”
“Yes, because my new best friend is jealous. I told her to tell her mom, ‘I’m going to cut my head off if you don’t give me juice.’”
I jumped up, alarmed. “You said what?! That’s not okay! You could get expelled!”
“Expelled?”
“Seriously, did you tell anyone else?”
“What’s the big deal? You told me you got your head chopped off in a horror movie, and you’re still alive.”
“Oh my God, did you tell people I make horror movies?”
“Well… don’t you?”
“Sort of, but I was in a few—none of it was real. Forget I said that! Just promise me you won’t talk about chopping heads off at school.”
I still hadn’t made any mom friends, and I could feel the distance growing. I dreaded going back on Monday, worried that this girl’s mom might report me. I felt out of my depth. I should be living a tranquil life, perhaps selling medical marijuana from a farm in Colorado.
“Mom? Is it okay if I pledge allegiance to the flag at school?”
“Um, sure.”
“Do they have online kindergarten?”
I pictured mornings filled with sleeping in, returning to our easygoing lifestyle. But I realized I had a responsibility now. Unlike my previous jobs, I couldn’t quit or get fired. There’s no backing out of parenthood. So here I am, equipped with my Frappuccino, ready for this long and unpredictable journey.
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Summary
This heartfelt piece captures the chaotic emotions of a parent navigating the first week of kindergarten, highlighting the struggles of creating a routine, dealing with anxiety, and the humorous mishaps that unfold. It reflects on the challenges of school life and the pressure to conform, while still cherishing the moments of connection with a child.