When Leo came into the world, there was something almost otherworldly about him. He reminded me of a wise little creature from a fantasy tale, with his knowing gaze and an unusual serenity—at least, for a newborn. To be honest, it was a tad unsettling at first, as if he was silently judging my every move. My father remarked during his first visit that in no time, I’d be shopping for his school backpack. I honestly doubted I could last that long, convinced that the sleepless nights and constant worry would surely take me down in a matter of days.
Fast forward to just a few days ago when the orange camo backpack with a matching lunchbox arrived at my doorstep. And here I am, still standing.
Since he was three months old, Leo has been in daycare. I didn’t shed a tear when I left him on his very first day. I’ve left him with grandparents, at day camps, and during playdates. We’ve moved recently and traveled often, so we’re accustomed to farewells and the transitions that come with them. Separation and new teachers have become part of our routine.
Yet, as kindergarten approaches, I find myself grappling with unexpected emotions. Our daily rhythm won’t change significantly: we’ll wake up, have breakfast, pack lunch, and say goodbye. Leo will head off to school while I tackle work at home. But somehow, it feels different. As the first day at the bus stop looms closer, the reality of it all weighs on me.
I scroll through Facebook, seeing pictures of my friends’ kids who have already embarked on their school journeys. I converse with other moms and know that everyone navigates the first day of kindergarten. Ultimately, we all desire the best for our children: growth, learning, and new experiences. Leo will soon be able to read—a truly exciting milestone!
Still, it feels like I’m losing something important—time, for instance. If the past five and a half years zipped by, how swift will the next thirteen be? Can I keep pace? Will I be capable of remaining present? Will I be able to hold onto these moments?
Looking back on our years together, I have no regrets. We’ve shared countless joyful times—even those that were less than ideal, filled with exhaustion, frustration, and chaos. We’ve enjoyed cuddles, afternoon naps, and sunny days at the playground. I don’t wish I had breastfed longer or taken him to more classes. We did what worked for us, and despite the imperfections, it was immensely fun.
As we approach kindergarten, I wish I felt a sense of accumulated wisdom about parenting. Instead, I often feel like I’m scrambling, breathless, leaping from one challenge to another. Just when I think I’ve grasped one aspect of parenting, a new question arises. In a single day, I find myself explaining everything from the purpose of his body parts to why the sky is blue, how cars function, and why we avoid name-calling. It’s overwhelming, and by day’s end, I often wonder if I’ve muddled the answers. There seems to be no way to perfect this parenting gig, as the landscape shifts daily, and I must be composed and steady in every moment.
As kindergarten nears, I feel uncertain about whether I know the right answers regarding school, bullies, teachers, homework, sports, and field trips. The questions seem to grow more complex, shaded by nuances Leo is beginning to understand. I truly don’t want to let him down. I need to get this right. School carries more weight than any previous milestone; its impact will resonate throughout his life.
Perhaps this is why the transition to kindergarten feels so daunting—it feels as though I’m being tested. Everything I’ve done so far will be scrutinized. Can he sit still? Is he kind? Can he assert himself? Does he feel equipped to take risks and learn? Have I provided enough love, attention, and space for him to build a solid foundation? Will school dismantle what I’ve nurtured, or will it transform it into something magnificent?
I know that in a few weeks, we’ll settle into our new routine and it will begin to feel second nature. Just as we forget the pain of childbirth or the exact moment our little ones first smiled or spoke, I’ll likely forget the cozy days of preschool. School will become a natural part of our lives. I can’t quite explain this phenomenon of forgetting or how we adapt to new realities, but it happens.
I also can’t fully grasp how the little bundle of goo in that orange cup has evolved into a boy who just broke a wooden board with his elbow in Taekwondo class and has strong opinions about the color of his backpack. Whether it’s due to my influence, science, magic, or divine intervention, it’s undoubtedly a combination of many factors.
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In summary, as we approach kindergarten, I grapple with mixed emotions about this significant change in our lives. While I reflect on our cherished moments together, I also feel the weight of the uncertainties ahead. The transition brings excitement, fear, and the desire to ensure Leo is well-prepared for this new chapter.