A child’s first-ever day of school
is difficult. This is a big, unknown world to them and this life transition can
be overwhelming.
The car ride feels like a trip to a funeral.
The stomach is tied in knots and the walk to the schoolhouse door is so nerve racking there is legitimate fear the morning breakfast might make an unwanted reappearance on the sidewalk.
The lump in the throat makes it nearly impossible to talk. And tears. No matter how strong, the eyes get misty.
My first day of preschool did not go well.
Wait, you thought I was talking about Sydney? That girl couldn’t wait for this big transition. Dad, however, was not as excited about this HUGE step.
My big hope -- one that is shared by all parents -- is that my child be liked and have a positive experience in school. The alternative would rip out my heart.
So, as I approach the door every morning when I drop her off for preschool, I scan the faces of children to first see if there is anyone her age and then if there is anyone whom she already calls a “friend.” After I sign her in, I linger, hoping to see someone run up to her and say hi, or grab her hand and ask her to come play.
Two weeks in and Sydney still enjoys going, so I think she is making headway. She’s a social butterfly who is fearless when it comes to introducing herself, talking to others or even joining into play that is already taking place. She is much better than I am when it comes to working the crowd.
Still, I have seen her attempts to play with older children met with stares and silence. I cried silently inside.
This parenting thing makes you soft.
I owe a former Cincinnati Enquirer editor a humble apology. She once asked me to do a story on school bullying. I brushed it off, thinking it was silly. I thought she was only suggesting it because her kid was a “nerd” and getting picked on. This was before the days of the internet and social media and some of the extreme tragedies we have seen occur because of bullying.
I remember the horseplay we engaged in when I was a kid. I gave some and I took some. I don’t know that it was “bullying,” but I do remember some kids got a lot more than others. We picked on one boy so much that, when he shot and killed his grandfather years later, I actually wondered if we weren’t all somehow culpable.
I don’t want my kids to bully or be bullied. I want them to be the one who befriends those who are being picked on. In this day and age, that simple act of kindness might save your life if that kid one day decides to bring a gun to school.
To say I am worried about bullying already is a little extreme. I’m mainly concerned about acceptance. I don’t need Sydney to have 100 friends, but I really need her to have a couple. I need to feel secure that she is happy and that going to school is positive and something she enjoys. I need to know her feelings aren’t being trampled on every day.
Why? I can’t explain it. I don’t even have those needs for myself. I already have a healthy dose of self-confidence and a probably way-too-big ego, so when I sense someone’s distaste for me or perceive talking behind my back, I brush it off and move on.
But I need more for my daughter. And, in time, my son.
We all want this for our children, right? It is on the list of “big wishes” for a parent, right behind health and safety. We want them to feel happy, loved and accepted.
I even thought to myself the other day that if I could make a deal with the devil, I’d cut off one of my hands to ensure she was always well liked, surrounded by friends and blissfully dancing through life, unbothered by cold stares and silent replies.
That is what we parents do. We worry. We bargain. We hope for the best.
So every morning, after I have signed her in, said my good bye and closed the schoolhouse door, I always take one last look through the window.
I look for the hint of a smile.
I hope for a little spring in her step.
I scan furtively for another child to come racing out of the crowd to greet my daughter.
A friend. That’s all I really want to see. A friend.
The car ride feels like a trip to a funeral.
The stomach is tied in knots and the walk to the schoolhouse door is so nerve racking there is legitimate fear the morning breakfast might make an unwanted reappearance on the sidewalk.
The lump in the throat makes it nearly impossible to talk. And tears. No matter how strong, the eyes get misty.
My first day of preschool did not go well.
Wait, you thought I was talking about Sydney? That girl couldn’t wait for this big transition. Dad, however, was not as excited about this HUGE step.
My big hope -- one that is shared by all parents -- is that my child be liked and have a positive experience in school. The alternative would rip out my heart.
So, as I approach the door every morning when I drop her off for preschool, I scan the faces of children to first see if there is anyone her age and then if there is anyone whom she already calls a “friend.” After I sign her in, I linger, hoping to see someone run up to her and say hi, or grab her hand and ask her to come play.
Two weeks in and Sydney still enjoys going, so I think she is making headway. She’s a social butterfly who is fearless when it comes to introducing herself, talking to others or even joining into play that is already taking place. She is much better than I am when it comes to working the crowd.
Still, I have seen her attempts to play with older children met with stares and silence. I cried silently inside.
This parenting thing makes you soft.
I owe a former Cincinnati Enquirer editor a humble apology. She once asked me to do a story on school bullying. I brushed it off, thinking it was silly. I thought she was only suggesting it because her kid was a “nerd” and getting picked on. This was before the days of the internet and social media and some of the extreme tragedies we have seen occur because of bullying.
I remember the horseplay we engaged in when I was a kid. I gave some and I took some. I don’t know that it was “bullying,” but I do remember some kids got a lot more than others. We picked on one boy so much that, when he shot and killed his grandfather years later, I actually wondered if we weren’t all somehow culpable.
I don’t want my kids to bully or be bullied. I want them to be the one who befriends those who are being picked on. In this day and age, that simple act of kindness might save your life if that kid one day decides to bring a gun to school.
To say I am worried about bullying already is a little extreme. I’m mainly concerned about acceptance. I don’t need Sydney to have 100 friends, but I really need her to have a couple. I need to feel secure that she is happy and that going to school is positive and something she enjoys. I need to know her feelings aren’t being trampled on every day.
Why? I can’t explain it. I don’t even have those needs for myself. I already have a healthy dose of self-confidence and a probably way-too-big ego, so when I sense someone’s distaste for me or perceive talking behind my back, I brush it off and move on.
But I need more for my daughter. And, in time, my son.
We all want this for our children, right? It is on the list of “big wishes” for a parent, right behind health and safety. We want them to feel happy, loved and accepted.
I even thought to myself the other day that if I could make a deal with the devil, I’d cut off one of my hands to ensure she was always well liked, surrounded by friends and blissfully dancing through life, unbothered by cold stares and silent replies.
That is what we parents do. We worry. We bargain. We hope for the best.
So every morning, after I have signed her in, said my good bye and closed the schoolhouse door, I always take one last look through the window.
I look for the hint of a smile.
I hope for a little spring in her step.
I scan furtively for another child to come racing out of the crowd to greet my daughter.
A friend. That’s all I really want to see. A friend.
