By: Emma Davis
Updated: Aug. 22, 2015
Originally Published: Sep. 14, 2011
While many parents shed tears over their children starting kindergarten, I found myself consumed by my own worries. Our lives had been blissfully unstructured for five years—sleeping in, waking whenever, and living by our own rules. Schedules? Not my forte. I’ve lost jobs because I couldn’t adhere to corporate timelines, and my high school record boasts being late 77 times and absent 53. Anxiety is creeping in, causing sleepless nights and a lack of appetite.
To complicate matters, we’re too far for bus service, living 3/4 mile from the school. This means I’ll be making 360 trips for drop-offs and pick-ups over the school year, not including those inevitable returns for forgotten items like snow pants. The night before, I conduct multiple practice runs to school: one on foot, one on a bike, one on a scooter, and one by car. Ultimately, we decide on the scooter, and I force myself to turn in early.
As I lay in bed, I can’t stop checking the weather. At 4 a.m., I’m prepping her snack, slipping a love note into her bag, and pacing the house until dawn breaks. We have pancakes, a brand new outfit, shiny new shoes, and we’re ready for the day. Grabbing her scooter from the garage, we set off.
Just one block into our adventure, my partner drives by and offers us a lift. It’s not in the plan, but I gladly accept, tossing the scooter into the trunk. As we zoom past parents filming their kids and crossing guards welcoming everyone, I instruct my daughter to keep her head down and not wave.
Upon arriving at the school, we’re swept into the chaos of parents and children. The familiar scent of the building hits me like a wave, flooding my mind with memories. We navigate through the crowd to her cubby, dropping off her belongings and signing in. I fill out forms, sign up for the PTO, and sort through her snacks, trying to keep it all together. After a quick hug and an air kiss, I’m out the door.
The walk home in the September heat is exhausting. I’m lugging the scooter over my shoulder, drenched in sweat. Once home, I manage two loads of laundry before it’s time to head back for pickup. The routine begins: lunch, piano lessons, playdates, dinner, bath, books, brush teeth, bed. By Thursday, I’m feeling the strain and we opt for takeout. Instead of a bath, I wipe her down with baby wipes and substitute brushing her teeth for a mint.
By Friday, I’ve forgotten her sneakers for gym class twice, neglected to return library books, and skipped the parent potluck dinner. The scooter that should be neatly parked is carelessly tossed aside. Realizing I’ve left it behind, I think, “Forget it, I’m not going back.”
The healthy snacks I packed have morphed into chocolate pudding and cookies, and I find myself drinking Frappuccinos like they’re going out of style. The barrage of school emails, photos, potluck invites, and meeting requests is overwhelming. When I drop her off, she asks me to stay and help with a solar system drawing. I’m fried, and in a moment of panic, I blurt out, “Can’t you just draw a rainbow or a slice of pizza?”
One mom gives me a sharp glare and asks if my daughter really Googles at home. “Well, she does have an iPod and a laptop,” I admit, feeling the weight of mommy guilt settle in.
I am overwhelmed, questioning my place in this school institution that I’ve fought so hard to escape. I begin to sweat, longing to flee the scene. I can’t remember names or faces, and I just want to go home. Once I do, I sit on the couch for the remainder of the school day, staring blankly at the wall. Halfway to pick her up, I realize I’m barefoot. Dinner? Not happening tonight. It’s Friday, and ice cream is on the menu.
“Mom? I’m the only one at school who gets juice,” she declares.
“Really? 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 to tell her mom, ‘Mom, I’m going to cut off my head if you don’t give me juice!’”
I jump up, horrified. “What?! You can’t say that! That’s a crime!”
“Arrested?” she replies innocently.
I’m on the verge of panic, realizing I haven’t made any mom friends yet. I dread going back on Monday, fearing the fallout from that comment.
“Mom, is it okay if I pledge allegiance to the flag at school?” she asks.
“Sure,” I reply, already daydreaming of those care-free mornings again. But I know my role is to support her, no matter how challenging it becomes.
With my Frappuccino in hand, I brace myself for this new journey. It’s bound to be a wild ride, my little companion.