While many parents lamented the bittersweet moment of their little ones embarking on their kindergarten journey, I found myself lost in a whirlwind of anxiety. For five years, our life had been a free-for-all: sleep when you want, wake when you want, do whatever you please. Honestly, I’ve never been great with routines. My record in the corporate world isn’t exactly stellar, having been let go from three different jobs, and during high school, I was late 77 times and absent 53. Panic attacks have become my new normal. As the school year dawned, I couldn’t sleep, eat, or think clearly. To make matters worse, our proximity to the school means we don’t qualify for bus service, so I’m staring down 180 days of back-and-forth trips—twice a day—totaling 360 trips, not counting the countless returns for forgotten items like snow pants.
The night before, I conduct four practice runs to the school: once on foot, once on a bicycle, once on a scooter, and once by car. Ultimately, we settle on the scooter, and I force myself to sleep three hours earlier than usual.
As the night drags on, I toss and turn, obsessively checking the weather. At 4 a.m., I prepare her snack, sneak a love note into her bag, and pace around the house waiting for dawn. We’re ready for a pancake breakfast, a new outfit, fresh socks, shiny shoes, and a headband to match. This is the big day!
We grab her scooter from the garage and set off. Just a block into our journey, my husband drives by and offers us a ride to school. It’s not part of the plan, but I accept. I toss the scooter into the trunk, and as we zoom past neighbors filming their kids walking to school and the crossing guard welcoming everyone back, I duck my head in embarrassment, urging my daughter not to make eye contact or wave.
We’re dropped off at the school entrance and squeezed into the bustling crowd of parents and kids. Suddenly, an overwhelming wave of nausea hits me. The familiar scent of the school and the chaos surrounding us is suffocating. We elbow our way to her cubby, drop off her supplies, and sign in. Red marker for the A group, a red folder into the file, a sign-up sheet for the PTO, a pick-up sign-off sheet, an extra change of clothes in the cubby, and a sensible snack in the snack container with brown rice cakes, raisins, and water bottles. After hugs, air kisses, and a hurried goodbye, I head home.
The September heat envelops me as I walk back with the scooter over my shoulder and a helmet in hand, completely worn out and drenched in sweat. I manage to squeeze in two loads of laundry before I need to rush back for pick-up. The day rolls on with lunch, piano practice, playdates, dinner, bath time, storytime, teeth brushing, and bed. This same routine continues into Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. By Thursday night, we’re exhausted, so we opt for takeout. Instead of a bath, I wipe her down with baby wipes. Instead of a proper teeth brushing, I hand her a mint.
By Friday, I’ve already forgotten her sneakers for PE twice, neglected to return her library books, and skipped out on the parent potluck dinner. The scooter, which usually rests neatly against the stone wall, is carelessly tossed aside, and I forget to take it home when I leave. Realizing this, I think, “Forget it, I’m not going back.”
As for the sensible snacks, they’ve devolved into chocolate pudding, Nilla cookies, and Fanta in a water bottle masquerading as OJ. I’m guzzling Grande Frappuccinos as if they’re going out of style. The tidal wave of school emails, Shutterfly photos, potluck picnics, flu vaccine forms, PTO meetings, and open house nights is overwhelming. When I drop her off on Friday, she asks me to stay and help her draw the solar system. I’m frazzled, and as I fumble through drawing, one of the other moms watches me closely.
“Mom, how many planets are in the solar system?” my daughter asks. “I don’t know. Twelve? Eight? Didn’t they just kick one out? You can Google it later. Can’t you just draw a rainbow or a pizza slice like the other kids?” I’m met with a sharp look from the mom, who remarks, “Does she really Google at home? Can you imagine if your kindergartner had an iPad? That would be outrageous!”
Well, my kindergartner does have an iPod, an iPhone, a PC, and a laptop. And yes, I’m riddled with mommy guilt. I’m not even sure why.
I feel trapped. Institutions have never been my cup of tea, and school is the quintessential institution. After spending my entire life trying to escape, I find myself shackled for the next 13 years, this time alongside a 5-year-old and a scooter. The sweat begins to trickle down my back. I just want to go home. I can’t even remember the names of the other moms or the teachers, and I struggle to navigate my way back outside.
Once home, I collapse onto the couch for what feels like an eternity, staring blankly at the wall. I walk back for pick-up, only to realize halfway there that I’m barefoot. At that moment, I decide dinner is off the table. It’s Friday; my kid can have ice cream, and the adults can pour themselves a glass of wine. We’ve made it through the week, and we’re ready for a snuggle.
“Mom? I’m the only one at school who gets juice,” she says. “Really? The only one? What does everyone else drink?” I ask. “Water.” “Alright, do you want me to give you water?” “Yes, because it makes my best friend jealous. I told her how to get her mom to give her juice. She should say, ‘Mom? I’m going to cut my head off if you don’t give me juice!’”
I jump out of bed, alarmed. “You said what?! You can get expelled for that! That’s a crime! You could get arrested!”
“Arrested?” she replies.
“Did you say that to anyone else?”
“What’s the big deal? You told me about a horror movie where someone got their head chopped off, and they’re still alive.”
“Did you tell people I make horror movies?”
“Don’t you?”
“Yes and no. I was in a few, but it wasn’t real. Forget I ever told you that. Just promise me you’ll never talk about chopping heads off at school, okay?”
I haven’t made any mom friends yet, and I sense I’m losing the few I might have. The thought of returning to school on Monday fills me with dread. What if that girl’s mom tells on me? I’m clearly not cut out for this world; I should be living on a farm selling medical marijuana in Colorado or something.
“Mom? Is it okay if I pledge allegiance to the flag at school?”
“Um, sure.”
“Do they have online kindergarten?”
As I imagine mornings spent sleeping in, I also realize that I have a responsibility that I can’t quit, unlike my previous jobs. You can’t just walk away from being a parent. It’s a journey I didn’t choose, but I must embrace. So, armed with my Frappuccino, I brace myself for the long and bumpy road ahead with my little one.
For more insights on parenting and navigating life’s challenges, check out this post about Cervical Insemination, where you can find helpful tips. And if you’re considering starting a family, this at-home insemination kit is a reputable option to explore. For further information on fertility and home insemination, visit Facts About Fertility, an excellent resource.
In summary, the transition to kindergarten can be overwhelming for parents, filled with anxiety and chaos. Routines are suddenly essential, and the pressure to fit in and keep up can feel suffocating. Despite the challenges, we navigate this journey with humor and resilience, learning to embrace the ups and downs of parenting.
Leave a Reply