I didn’t take back-to-school pictures of my kids this year. I didn’t forget like I did in pre-K. We didn’t run out of time, as I’m sure was the case another year. I simply admitted to myself that of all the battles to be fought that morning, that one I could let go. Me letting go might allow him to hold on.
I’m enjoying all of your photos, awed at how fast time is flying and children are growing. I even saw a few mamas of seniors post every 1st day pic from preschool through Senior year, and I loved those posts. I loved seeing how those tiny babes morphed to nearly grown.
I loved it, and I also knew that, this year at least, the less fanfare and formality, the better.
Our oldest started middle school, and it was big.
He’d been actively dreading the day since his last day of fourth grade. (You didn’t read that wrong. He cried himself to sleep on the eve of his first day of Summer TWO summer’s ago because he didn’t want his last year of elementary school to come, and thus end. Every semester down, every holiday break, every milestone, he lamented because it meant the safety net of elementary school was nearing an end. He was dogged in his determination never to forget what was coming.
And yet it came. With it came the news that the middle school he’d hung all his hopes on would not be his middle school. With that came one of the many hard lessons of growing up – that you don’t always get what you want…and that the world goes on anyway.
I quietly added the orientation dates to the calendar, gathered and stashed his soon-to-be uniform shirts in a top shelf in his closet, and prayed a lot of prayers that we’d get through the summer with minimal reminders about the battle ahead. Amazingly, that kind of worked.
Waves of dread would surface from time to time, like when he discovered his school started before his birthday for the first time ever, or when he finally read the dress code and realized shorts were off limits, or when many of his former classmates had their first days at the schools he wouldn’t be attending. When they came, we felt the dread too, with him and for him, and were able to hold space for the disappointment that sometimes comes with big change. Maybe because we felt it too, or at least because we let him feel all the feelings, he seemed to bob back to the surface each time a wave would pull him under. We stood perched on our parental lifeguard stands, flotation devices ready, but he had it covered. He kept swimming.
When he woke on his own and appeared in the kitchen with his uniform on the first day of school, I felt incredible relief. We delivered his favorite breakfast of homemade crepes to the table without drama. We kept our voices low, a little jazz playing quietly in the background, and we made absolute NO mention of “the first day of school” or how he was feeling about it. No questions. No demands. Sure as hell no back to school photos. Dad walked him out the back door and the few blocks to campus, and though my mama heart nearly exploded in my chest, I didn’t wish him a good day or ask to walk with. I stood at the sliding door, watching them walk away, sending all the love and prayers and wishes in the world, but silently and separately, because getting there was the best he could do, and getting him there through any means necessary was the best we could do. I could let go so that he could hold on.
I waited outside the doors at release time that day, breathing deeply and using every tool in my parental toolbox to manage my own anxiety. When I locked eyes with him and he reached earshot, the first thing he said was “can I stay home tomorrow? Please don’t make me go back.” My heart shattered into a thousand pieces. My nervous system debated fight or flight on his behalf. I reminded myself that hard as it is, this wasn’t my problem to solve. I walked with him. I listened. I hated every second of it. And I let him have all his feelings. What else could I do, really?
He was overwhelmed by the length of the day, the sternness of the culture, the lack of friends, so many teachers and classrooms. It was all too much. When this had been the case before, we had swooped in and met with his teachers and administrators to get him more support, accommodations, and understanding. It was time to empower him to take the reins, so we printed out his learning plan and talked through it with him, practicing how he could advocate for himself and ask for the support he needs and is entitled to.
On the third day, he said he couldn’t go. He meant it. He physically couldn’t peel himself off the floor and get himself to standing. He slept like the dead for six hours, until well after lunch time, and then willingly met with his school social worker to find a path forward.
The last four weeks have been full of wild waves. There have been good days – he’s trying to start a baseball club with a new friend – and really hard ones – dad left for a weekend trip the same day his savior of a social worker was out of the office. He stood up to a teacher last week and successfully advocated for a break he knew he needed. He got up every morning except two and found a way to get where he needed to be, and his teachers report that he’s doing well once he’s there.
I wish it wasn’t so hard. I hope it doesn’t stay this way. But wow. That first day of school picture we didn’t take? I think I’ll replace that with a photo of his back walking away from us the first day he confidently walked out that door on his own toward this new chapter.
The waves will keep coming. I know that. I’m learning to trust that he’s a capable swimmer – he knows when he needs to rest and when it’s time to change strokes. He’ll tell us if he needs to sit out and take a breather. All we have to do is trust him. He knows what he needs, and he knows we’re here just in case. I’m hoping I’ll get a little more relaxed in the lifeguard tower, maybe loosen the death grip on the life preserver, relax my bite on the whistle and let it relax around my neck, maybe even lean back in my chair and work on my tan for moment. He’s got this. We’ve got him.
It’s not swim team; it’s open swim. We’re not coaches optimizing for perfect execution and speed. We’re here to let him figure this swimming thing out without sinking for too long. Letting the first day photo go was just the beginning of the letting go. While it’s so hard to watch him flounder, it’s also incredible to watch him hold on. He’s doing it, and I guess we are, too. A staged photo never would have captured all that anyway.
