Kindergarten

My firstborn baby girl started kindergarten this fall. It’s been a difficult transition… Not for her! It’s the night before her first day, and I’m standing in the bathroom, watching her brush her teeth. I just look at her and say, “You’re growing up too fast. I need you to do me a favor and stay five forever?”

She looks at me with crinkled eyebrows and replies, “You don’t want me to grow up and be a strong, tough mama?”

First of all, baby, I’ll take that compliment! And secondly, of course I do, if that’s what you want. Or I want you to grow up and be a childless world traveler who has lots of exotic sex partners if that’s what suits you more. All I want is for you to live a life that you love, full of joy and enough challenges to keep you from becoming an asshole.

But I’m struggling. The clichés are true: the days are long, but the years are short, and I’m not ready. I know it’s only kindergarten, she’s not volunteering as tribute, but this is the first time in her life where I have to let go of the reins a little bit and realize I’m not her entire sphere of influence. I have so many worries and doubts about whether we did a good enough job. Will she remember to use her manners if I’m not there to harass remind her? How long until she starts believing there’s a correlation between her worth and the size of her thighs? What happens when she sees another kid bring Oreos in their lunch and she starts thinking that carrots and hummus are bullshit?

My sweet baby girl, you’re going to meet a whole lot of people who might think a lot differently than you do, and that’s not a bad thing, but what I hope for you is this:

Don’t let others harden you. There will be times that others don’t invite you, or they don’t like your tutu and rain boots combination, and they will not want to be in the play you are directing. That’s OK. Go find your people and create your masterpiece. More importantly, please remember how it feels so that you aren’t the reason someone else goes home crying that day.

I’m going to need you to rein in your potty humor. I get it. The word penis is hilarious, but learn how to read the room.

Don’t let our school system ever beat out the joy of learning. You will be tested. A lot. But those tests will never measure how you create robots out of the recycling bin or know that you wanted a telescope for your third birthday.

You will learn math and reading, and I know you will absorb that when you’re good and ready, but I’m not worried about that. Whatever you do, please, be the nice kid. Be the kid who fills buckets and seeks out the shy kids. Be the kid who tells other kids how much you like their shoes and invites them to play at recess and offers the carrots and hummus out of your lunch. Be that kid.

You are strong and feisty, and I see your potential for being a strong leader. Follow that instinct. But remember that dictating how people are allowed to play with their Barbies isn’t leadership, it’s annoying.

Remember that beauty is not a competition. Be proud of your little round belly and your crazy long legs and know that EVERYONE is beautiful. Look at people’s hearts first and foremost.

You will never have to squeeze yourself into one box. You can be shy and strong, loud and intellectual, athletic and artistic, kind and moody.

I won’t be there all day to remind you that you need to be an ally to those who need it, and find allies who have your back. Don’t forget that the world isn’t fair. Sometimes that will work out in your favor and sometimes it won’t. Advocate for others and for yourself when you see injustice. Don’t forget that someone else having a birthday is NOT injustice.

Know that at the end of the day, I’ll be here, and I will be your sounding board as long as you let me.

School has been in session for months now, and things seemed to be going… OK??? She hasn’t come home quoting Republicans or rooting for the Seahawks, so it can’t be all bad! It’s hard to tell for sure. The only information I get is long detailed accounts of recess politics and who ate what for lunch.

But we had her first school conference a couple weeks ago and I was so nervous to hear firsthand what she is like when we aren’t there. The teacher sits us down in those teeny tiny chairs that only fit one of my ass cheeks and tells us she’s thriving. She excels at math. She could stand to work on her coloring skills and she might need some practice writing the letter S, but she’s a great student.                                                                                           

I’m proud, so proud, but that’s not what I want to know. I want to know who she is, how she represents herself, and how she treats others when we're not there. Sensing my nerves, the teacher looks me in the eye and says, “Your daughter is a thoughtful, compassionate, and confident person. She seeks out the kid who doesn’t have a partner, and she treats everyone as a friend and an equal. You should be very proud of Zoe and of yourselves.”

I let that sink in as I unsuccessfully try not to cry. Our kid is a nice kid, and something we did stays with her even when we aren’t watching over her shoulder. There will be plenty of time for self-doubt and second guessing and to get things wrong later, but right now, I’m going to take the win. Our kid is a nice kid, and that didn’t happen by accident.

** Performed in Expressing Motherhood in January 2020