Why Do I Get That Weird Nostalgic Feeling Visiting My Kid’s Elementary School?
Last Tuesday I stood in my 6-year-old’s kindergarten hallway waiting for the fall party to start, and ducked into the nearest bathroom to wash my hands before cutting sugar cookies. I’d forgotten how everything fits here. The sinks hit me mid-thigh. The toilet seats sit so low my knees crumple when I sit down. The hand dryer blows at the exact height of a 5-year-old’s face, not an adult’s waist. I pressed my hand against the painted cinder block next to the sink, and it lined up almost perfectly with a 25-year-old handprint left by a kid named Jake, whose name is scribbled in crayon under the print. For 10 whole seconds, I couldn’t remember if I was the adult standing here, or the kid whose hand would have fit that print exactly. That weird, tight little feeling in my chest—does anyone else get that?
I finished washing up and walked down to the first grade wing to drop off a batch of extra cookies their teacher had asked for. I stopped at the water fountain to wet my dry throat, and had to bend all the way over to get a sip, that’s when I saw them: two first graders hovering by the cubbies, one girl crying big silent tears down her cheeks, and the boy in front of her clutching a sparkly unicorn eraser behind his back. I recognized the fight immediately. I had the exact same fight in first grade, over a neon Lisa Frank cat eraser I’d gotten for my birthday. I cried so hard my teacher had to sit me in the rocking chair with a cool paper towel on my forehead, and by the time I calmed down, I forgot why I was upset in the first place. But standing there, 28 years later, watching that girl cry, it didn’t feel silly. It felt huge, because it was huge for her.
That jolt I get every time I’m in the building isn’t just nostalgia for sticky juice boxes and recess tag. It’s this quiet reminder that I’d forgotten what it feels like to experience the world at this size. We show up as adults, everything feels small and manageable, so we assume the problems are small and manageable too. I catch myself doing it all the time. When my daughter comes home upset because someone got the purple crayon she wanted, my first reaction is to shrug and say “we have purple crayons at home, it’s fine.” But that’s no different than a stranger shrugging off a fight with my best friend or a bad day at work as “no big deal” because they’re looking at my life from the outside.
These trips down the little kid hallways have taught me small, concrete changes I can make at home and that I’ve seen work in the classroom, too. The first shift is the thing I say when my kid is upset about something that looks tiny to me. Instead of leading with “it’s no big deal,” I lead with naming the size of her feeling. Last week, she came crying off the bus because her reading partner didn’t want to switch seats like they’d agreed the day before. Instead of blowing it off, I said “you two made a plan, and it hurts when it changes without asking. That’s really disappointing.” Nine times out of 10, that’s all she needs. She stops crying, nods, and moves on to talking about what she had for snack. I don’t have to fix the problem, I just have to see it the same size she sees it.
Another small shift I’ve started doing, that I wish more parents and teachers would try, is letting kids scope out their space before they have to use it. When we went to meet the teacher before school started, I didn’t rush her through saying hello and glancing at the bulletin board to get to the grocery store on time. I let her climb on her chair three times, open and close her cubby, test the water fountain, even struggle with the bathroom stall lock for a minute before I offered help. It’s a tiny adjustment, but it lets her get used to the size of the world she’s in every day, instead of me treating all the little hard parts as annoyances to power through. For teachers, that translates to keeping everyday supplies on lower shelves, not stacking all the crayons and glue on the top counter where only adults can reach. My kid’s teacher does this, and I notice kids don’t interrupt lessons to ask for help half as often, because they can reach what they need on their own.
After the party, we walked out to the parking lot. My daughter was holding her half-eaten cookie and a crumpled paper bag full of handprint turkeys, and she kept stopping to point out every shiny acorn on the sidewalk. I slowed down, even though I was in a hurry to get to the store before it closed. That weird feeling didn’t go away, the one that makes me feel like I’m both the kid who fought over the eraser and the adult watching the fight. I still mess up. Last night, I got annoyed when she threw a fit because her toast was too crispy, and I snapped that she was being dramatic. Later, I climbed up on her little step stool, the one she uses to reach the bathroom sink, and I realized how high and overwhelming the whole counter looks from down there. I went back and apologized, and cut her a new piece of toast.
Some days I remember to slow down and meet her where she is, some days I don’t. But every time I walk those low-ceilinged, little-sink hallways, I get that reminder again: the world is the size you are when you’re in it. And all the feelings, big or small, are real when you’re feeling them.
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