Why Your Kid Doesn’t Want to Go to School Prize Distribution (And What You Can Do)
The crinkle of my 10-year-old Mia’s starched uniform hit my ears before she spoke, Sunday night at the kitchen table, half a peanut butter granola bar melting next to her math workbook. “I don’t feel good. I don’t wanna go to school tomorrow.” I leaned against the counter, wiping pasta sauce off my hand, and asked what tomorrow was, that she’d been fine with it last week. “Prize distribution,” she mumbled, staring at her socks.
My first thought was to remind her she’d earned the art award we’d gotten the email about two weeks prior, that we’d even bought new white sneakers for the assembly, that everyone was going to be so proud of her. Then I stopped. I remembered my own 7th grade prize day, when I won an award for the regional science fair, and I hid in a bathroom stall the whole assembly, my shoes squelching on wet tile, because I couldn’t stand the thought of 300 kids staring at me while I walked across the stage. My mom had called me silly, told me I was throwing away an achievement I worked for, and I still remember how small that made me feel. So I sat down on the cold linoleum next to her chair instead of giving the speech I’d almost said.
I asked her what the worst part was, specifically. She shrugged, then started talking: last year she tripped on the edge of the stage going up for her reading badge, and three boys in her class called her “klutz” for a week. What if she tripped again? What if the principal mispronounced her last name (he always mispronounces our last name) and everyone laughed? And even if none of that happened, you have to sit for an hour waiting, right? If you’re not getting a big award, you just sit there bored, and if you are, you sit there panicking the whole time waiting for your name to be called. That’s when it hit me: I’d never thought of prize distribution as anything but a nice, fun end-of-year tradition. But it’s a whole hour of public scrutiny, sorted by who the school decides is “good enough” for an award, and almost everyone is uncomfortable in one way or another.
I pulled out my phone to text her teacher. I didn’t write a long email about anxiety or demand anything special, I just said: “Mia’s feeling really overwhelmed about tomorrow’s prize assembly. She earned the art award, but public speaking and walking the stage stresses her out a lot. Is there any small adjustment we could work out here?” I expected push back, like “it’s school policy, everyone has to participate” but her teacher wrote back 10 minutes later saying she’d had three other kids say the same thing that week, she just hadn’t thought to offer options. We talked through a few: Mia could stay in the classroom with the teacher’s aide during the assembly and get her award after, or she could sit at the back of the gym with the other kids who don’t like crowds, and go up right at the end when everyone’s packing up to leave. Mia picked the second option, before I even finished telling her the choices.
I picked her up after school the next day, and she was leaning against the fence swinging her backpack, the little ceramic art award sticking out of the side pocket. She said it went fine. She played tic-tac-toe with her friend Lila, who also hates assemblies, the whole time they called the names for sports and math and student council. When the principal got to the last category, art, most of the kids were already shoving their water bottles in their bags and talking to their friends. She walked up, got her plaque, no tripping, no mispronunciation (the teacher had reminded the principal how to say our name, which was a nice touch) and walked right back. “It wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be,” she said, pulling it out to show me. “But I was still glad I didn’t have to sit there panicking for an hour.”
I’ve been thinking about this a lot since, because I think so many of us default to pushing kids to participate in these traditions no matter how they feel. We say things like “you earned it, you have to go get it” or “don’t be shy, it’s good for you” but we don’t stop to ask what they actually need.
The first thing I’d tell other parents in this spot is to ask for the specific bad part, don’t just brush off their reluctance as shyness or being dramatic. Saying “what’s the scariest or most annoying part for you?” instead of “it’ll be fine” gives them space to tell you what’s actually going on, instead of just feeling like their feelings don’t matter. Second, ask for small adjustments. Most teachers don’t love forcing miserable kids to sit through hours of stressful events any more than we do. You don’t have to demand the whole tradition change, just ask for a small change that works for your kid. Most of the time, it’s way easier than you think—sitting at the back, getting the award after, skipping the assembly entirely, it doesn’t take much work from the school. Third, don’t make it a bigger deal than it is. I didn’t have a big talk with Mia about courage or facing your fears because she wasn’t being cowardly, she was just uncomfortable. She gets to decide how much public attention she wants to deal with, even when she earned the reward.
We hung her plaque on the wall above her desk last weekend, right next to the crayon drawing she did of our old dog. When I was taping it up, she mentioned that next year, she might not wanna go again, if she gets another award. I told her that was fine, we’d figure it out whatever she wants. It doesn’t matter if she walks across a stage in front of 300 people to get her award, or gets it handed to her after school in the classroom, or even skips it entirely. The award is still hers. The hard work she put in is still real. And that’s the part that matters, anyway.
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