Next week, the kids will head back to school.
The backpacks are lined up by the door. The school supplies have been purchased… along with a few things that probably weren’t on the list. New shoes have been tried on, outfits have been debated and somewhere in my house there’s already a water bottle that has mysteriously disappeared before the first day has even arrived.
It’s funny how every year I tell myself I’ll be more prepared than the last.
Every year I promise I won’t wait until the last minute. Every year I swear I’ll have everything labeled, every form filled out early, every schedule organized neatly on the calendar. And every year, somehow, back-to-school season sneaks up on me anyway.
Maybe it’s because summer has a way of making us believe time slows down. The days feel longer. Bedtimes get pushed back. Mornings become lazy. We trade routines for memories, and before we know it, the calendar reminds us it’s time to return to normal.
Except normal never looks quite the same as it did the year before.
Every August, the kids seem a little taller, little wiser and a little more independent than they were just a few months ago.
And every August, I realize I’m not just sending them into another school year. I’m sending them into another season of becoming.
As mothers, we spend so much time making sure they have everything they need. We check supply lists, buy backpacks, sharpen pencils and make sure lunch boxes are clean. We think about snacks they’ll actually eat, shoes they’ll be comfortable running in and folders sturdy enough to survive an entire semester.
We’re good at preparing for the things we can see. It’s the things we can’t prepare for that keep us awake at night.
I can’t pack confidence inside a backpack. I can’t make sure someone chooses to sit beside them at lunch. I can’t promise they’ll never have their feelings hurt, never make a bad grade, never feel left out or never question where they fit in. I can’t stop another child from saying something unkind. I can’t stop disappointment from finding them and if I’m being honest, that’s one of the hardest parts of motherhood.
When they’re little, we believe we can protect them from everything. We kiss scraped knees, wipe away tears and somehow make the world feel safe again with a hug and a Band-Aid. Then one day, the hurts become bigger than we can fix.
No hug can erase a broken friendship. No Band-Aid can cover insecurity. No amount of reassurance can completely quiet the voice in their head that’s wondering if they’re enough. So we do the only thing we know how to do.
We keep showing up. We keep reminding them who they are. We keep hoping all the little conversations we’ve had over the years, like the ones in the car, before bedtime, around the dinner table and during random moments when life slowed down just enough to listen, have planted roots deep enough to withstand whatever this school year brings.
I hope they remember that kindness will always matter more than popularity. I hope they learn that making a mistake doesn’t make them a failure. I hope they have the courage to include the child who’s standing alone, even when it’s easier to walk away. I hope they discover that confidence doesn’t come from having all the answers. It comes from believing they’re capable of figuring things out.
More than anything, I hope they know they never have to earn my love. Not with straight A’s or with trophies. Not with perfect attendance or perfect behavior. Because the world will spend enough time convincing them their worth depends on performance. I want home to be the place that reminds them it never does.
The older my girls get, the more I realize my job isn’t to clear every obstacle from their path. It’s to prepare them to walk through those obstacles with courage. To remind them that they can be brave and scared at the same time. That asking for help is a strength, not a weakness. That character will carry them farther than popularity ever could.
Next week, I’ll take the pictures every parent takes. I’ll straighten shirts that don’t need straightening, smooth ponytails one last time and remind them to have a good day, then I’ll watch them walk into another school year.
I’ll probably tear up after they can’t see me. Not because I’m sad they’re growing up, but because every first day reminds me that motherhood is a lifetime of slowly letting go while never letting your love grow smaller.
We spend years teaching them how to tie their shoes, ride a bike, read a book and solve a math problem, but somewhere along the way, we realize the greatest lessons aren’t found in a classroom. They’re found in the ordinary moments at home.
How we love. How we forgive. How we speak to people. How we respond when life doesn’t go our way. Those are the lessons they’ll carry long after they’ve forgotten multiplication tables and vocabulary words.
So while everyone else is talking about school supplies, I’m thinking about the things no teacher can put on a supply list. Those are the things I hope my girls carry through the school doors next week and maybe that’s what back-to-school season is really about.
Not preparing our children for another year of school, ut trusting that, little by little, we’ve been preparing them for life.
(Paige Gurgainers is a mom of three girls, digital journalist for Webster Parish Journal.)