While many parents shed tears over their little ones embarking on the kindergarten journey, my thoughts were solely on my own impending chaos. For five years, we thrived in a blissful routine-free existence—sleeping as we pleased, waking when we wanted, and following whims at every turn. Structure? Not my strong suit. I’ve been let go from three corporate jobs, and my high school record boasts 77 tardies and 53 absences. Anxiety has taken a firm grip on me; I can’t sleep, can’t eat, and my mind is a jumble.
We live just a smidgen too far from school to qualify for bus service—3/4 mile, to be exact. That means I have to make 360 trips back and forth over the school year—twice daily—plus additional jaunts for forgotten items like snow pants.
The night before the big day, I conduct four practice runs to the school: one on foot, another on a bike, a third on a scooter, and finally by car. In the end, we decide on the scooter, and I tuck my daughter in three hours earlier than usual.
I toss and turn, obsessively checking the weather. At 4 a.m., I prep her snack, slip a love note into her bag, and pace the house, waiting for dawn. Pancakes, a new dress, fresh socks, shiny shoes, and a matching headband—all set for the big day. We grab her scooter from the garage and off we go!
Barely a block into our scooting adventure, my husband drives past and offers us a ride on his way to work. It wasn’t in the plan, but I gladly accept. I shove the scooter into the trunk, and as we zoom past neighbors filming their kids walking to school, I duck my head in embarrassment and tell my daughter to keep her eyes down.
We arrive at the school, merging into the throng of parents and kids. Suddenly, I feel nauseous. The familiar scent of the school and the surrounding chaos flood my senses. We fight our way to her cubby, drop off her gear, and start signing in. Red marker for A group, red folder into the file, PTO sign-up sheet, pick-up sign-off, an extra set of clothes in the cubby, and a sensible snack next to the rice cakes, raisins, and camel-back water bottles. Hugs, an air kiss, and it’s goodbye.
I walk home under a sweltering September sun, exhausted and sweaty, only to have just enough time for two loads of laundry before I need to turn around for pick-up. Lunch, piano, playdate, dinner, bath, books, brush teeth, bed—this is the new routine for Tuesday through Thursday. I think I might survive the first week, but then Thursday night arrives and we cheat with takeout. That evening, instead of a bath, I resort to baby wipes, and brushing her teeth is replaced with a mint.
By Friday, I’ve forgotten her sneakers for PE twice, neglected to return library books, and skipped the parent potluck dinner (takeout again). We RSVP’d “no” to her birthday invite, even though we’re free that weekend. The scooter that usually stands neatly against the wall is carelessly tossed aside, and when I leave the building, I forget to take it home. When I realize it’s missing, I think, forget it, I’m not going back.
The sensible snack has morphed into chocolate pudding, Nilla cookies, and Fanta in a water bottle I’m hoping is mistaken for OJ. I’m guzzling Grande Frappuccinos like they’re the last of their kind. The school emails, Shutterfly photos, potluck invites, flu shot notices, PTO meetings, and open house nights are piling up.
On Friday, as I drop her off, she asks me to stay and help her draw the solar system. I’m fried, and one mom catches me awkwardly sketching lines around the sun.
“Mom, how many planets are there?” she asks.
“Um, 12? 8? 10? 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?”
The mom shoots me a disapproving glance. “Does she really Google at home? Can you imagine a kindergartner with an iPad? That’s just outrageous!”
My kindergartner has an iPod, an iPhone, a PC, and a laptop.
Guilt washes over me, and I can’t even pinpoint why. I feel trapped. I’ve spent my life escaping institutions, and now I’m back in one—this time shackled for the next 13 years, with a 5-year-old and a scooter. The sweat starts to trickle down my back. I just want to get home. I can’t even remember this mom’s name to excuse myself and leave. I draw a blank on the teachers’ names, the kids’ names, and the names of my daughter’s new friends’ moms.
Once home, I plop on the couch for what feels like an eternity, staring blankly at the wall. I head back for pick-up, halfway there when I realize I’m barefoot. That’s when I decide dinner is off the table. It’s Friday; ice cream for the kid, wine for the adults. We made it through the week, and now we just need to snuggle.
“Mom? I’m the only kid at school who gets juice.”
“Really? The only one? What’s everyone else drinking?”
“Water.”
“Okay, do you want me to give you water?”
“Yes, it makes my new best friend jealous. I told her how to get juice—say, ‘Mom? I’m going to cut my head off if you don’t give me juice.’”
I spring up. “What?! You said that? You can get expelled for that! It’s like a crime!”
“Arrested?” she asks innocently.
“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 here.”
“Did you tell people I make horror movies?”
“Well… don’t you?”
“Sort of. Forget I ever said that. You can’t mention chopping heads off at school, okay?”
I haven’t connected with any other moms yet, and I can already sense I’m losing my chance. The thought of going back on Monday is daunting; what if this girl’s mom reports me? I’m clearly not cut out for this. Perhaps I should be living a simpler life on a farm selling medical marijuana in Colorado or something.
“Mom? Is it okay if I pledge allegiance to the flag at school?”
“Uh, sure.”
“Is there online kindergarten?”
I sit up, imagining mornings filled with sleep-ins and a return to our carefree lifestyles. Yet, I realize I have a duty to fulfill. Unlike my other jobs, I can’t get fired or quit—there’s no escaping motherhood. So, Frappuccino in hand, I brace myself for the bumpy road ahead with my little buddy.
In this wild journey of parenting, it’s all about rolling with the punches, and maybe even indulging in a few Frappuccinos along the way.
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Summary:
Navigating the challenges of starting school can be overwhelming for parents, especially those unaccustomed to structure. This humorous reflection captures the chaos of the first week, from last-minute preparations to the pressure of fitting in with other parents. As we juggle new routines and responsibilities, it’s essential to remember that every parent is on their own journey, and sometimes, a little indulgence is needed to cope.