The First Day of School

We just survived the first day of school. My son started second grade, walking in with the confidence of someone who has done this before and mostly remembers where the cafeteria is. But my daughter — my not so little girl — started kindergarten. That one hit differently. There she was, backpack nearly as big as she is, holding my hand a little tighter than usual, looking up at the school doors like they were the entrance to a whole new world. And I suppose they were.

It is a strange thing, this first-day feeling. I am so proud of them I could burst. I cannot wait to hear what they learned, who they sat with at lunch, whether the playground still has the good swings. I want every detail. And at the very same time, I want to rewind the summer and keep them right here, right at this age, just a little longer.

The summer we had

This summer was full. There was camping under skies so full of stars they looked unreal. Beach vacations where everyone was in and out of way too cold water and got covered in sand without complaining. An epic neighborhood block party with an inflatable rented water slide that somehow my daughter went down at least 60 times. Visiting with family with pool time, beach time, fun dinners out and lots of conversations. It was loud and messy and exactly what summer should be.

But it was also a constant juggle. Who is going to what camp, which week, with what hours, and do those hours happen to align with any human work schedule? The mental load of summer logistics is no joke. I know I am not alone in this — I saw it on every other parent's face at drop-off, that same mix of relief and nostalgia that says, "We made it through, and I cannot believe it is already over."

The gift of one drop-off

I will be honest about one selfish little joy: my morning drop-offs just went from two locations to one. Hurrah. There is something magical about a single stop, a single routine, a single deep breath before the rest of the day begins. It is a small thing, but in the season of little kids and full-time life, small things are the whole game.

I took adorable pictures at drop-off. I gave extra big hugs, the kind where you squeeze a little longer than usual because part of you knows you are not just hugging them goodbye for the morning — you are hugging goodbye to this exact version of them. I caught up with parents I had not seen in weeks because everyone's summer schedule was its own special chaos. We traded camp stories, beach sunburns, and the universal relief of being back in a rhythm.

"Childhood is not a race to the next grade, the next milestone, the next inch on the doorframe. It is a season we are invited to witness, one ordinary morning at a time."

A collective deep exhale

There is something sacred about the start of a school year. It is not just sharpened pencils and clean lunchboxes. It is a reset. A returning. A chance to find our footing again after the beautiful blur of summer. The slower pace of fall feels like a exhale the whole family needed.

I am excited for the routine. I am excited for earlier bedtimes and predictable meals and the quiet rhythm of weekdays. I am excited to see what my kids will learn and who they will become this year. But I am also holding this moment carefully, because I know how fast it goes. The backpack will fit better by spring. The hesitant kindergarten walk will turn into a confident skip. And one day, not long from now, they will not reach for my hand at all.

So for now, I am doing what every parent does on the first day: I am taking a big breath, letting it out slow, and trying to remember exactly how their faces looked walking through those doors. The growing up is happening too fast. But it is also the most beautiful thing I have ever been asked to witness.