The 6th First Day

My older son started at his 10th school. He's 11.

My younger son started at his 6th school. He's 8.

I picked my younger son up from school on his first day. We rode our bikes home and he was telling me all about his day. He met two kids. He played basketball all recess. He earned Moolah to use at the Moolah Market. Everyone was friendly. He thinks it's going to be a good year.

Wonderful! Mama heart happy.

Bedtime rolls around. He doesn't want to sleep in his room. Fine. My husband left for his year-long unaccompanied tour two days before. We all have big feelings. No problem.

Then, and I shouldn't have been surprised, he stated, "I don't want to go to school tomorrow."

Oh no. I've read this chapter. Flashbacks to the start of each new school year.

First unaccompanied tour and his first school LMFA — cried every day in the car (45 minutes).

Montessori — wouldn't leave the car upon arriving at school.

GPA — wouldn't get in the car to go to school.

LFKL — cried every night about not wanting to go the next day.

ISKL — only school he was excited to attend from day 1 because he already knew kids who went there.

I thought we had turned the page and weren't looking back.

An hour later, he exhausted himself out from crying.

There's a reason the good day and the breakdown happened in the same six hours. The car, the bike ride home, bedtime — those are the places it's safe to fall apart. If your kid seems fine at pickup and unravels at bedtime, that's not regression. That's trust.

I met two kids turned into

I met only 2 kids and don't have any friends. I miss my friends from ISKL.

I played basketball all recess turned into

I shot baskets by myself all recess while the other kids played soccer, swung, or played on the playground.

Everyone is friendly turned into

No one played with me and they all knew each other from going to school together.

I let him know that each time he's changed schools, felt alone and sad, and struggled to find his place, he has always walked away with more friends than I can count, being seen as a leader in the classroom, and looked up to by his peers. And that while it sucks right now and is really hard, he only has 1 day of experience under his belt.

Reminding him of who he is and what he's capable of is crucial.

When we are surrounded by people who know us, all we have to do is show up. We are allowed to just exist. We have the privilege to just be.

When we move, making friends often feels like a performance. It takes more effort. We have to work at showing people who we are, and, sometimes, feel like we have to convince them to hang out with us. It's exhausting.

He doesn't (yet) have the feedback that he's been accepted.

Cultivating a strong sense of self is especially important for kids who move frequently so that during the transition period they can rest assured that their people will come along.

Belonging is external — it depends on who's in the room.

Identity is internal — it's the story he tells about who he is, regardless of the room.

Friendships take time. And in the meantime, he is still worthy and enough.

He fell asleep with tear-stained cheeks and Moolah Money is in hands, proof that both things are true at once. It was a good day. It was a hard day. He is capable. He is scared.

Tomorrow he'll get on the bike again. So will I.

This is the sixth first day. It doesn't get easier, but I know what to look for. I know that the crying isn't a sign something's wrong; it's the cost of doing something brave over and over. And I know that by spring, he'll be the kid other kids want to sit next to.

Until then: we show up, we let it be hard, and we remind him, and ourselves, who he already is.