Why Starting High School Hurts More As A Parent Than You Expect (Small, Practical Things That Help)
I’m standing at my kitchen sink an hour after the bus pulled away, and my oatmeal is still crusted to the bottom of the pot. The smoke alarm went off 20 minutes early this morning because I forgot to turn the burner off, too busy pressing my face to the front window to watch my son walk to the stop alone. He left me holding an extra granola bar I’d stuffed in my pocket just in case, and didn’t look back once. His new backpack is too big, the zipper on the side pocket sticks, and he refused to get a new one even though the old skateboard logo peeled halfway off over the summer. When I offered to walk the half block with him, he just shrugged and said “I’m good, mom” and kissed my cheek so fast I barely felt it. That’s when it hit me: my heart is breaking today, and he’s not even upset.
Last night, he folded all his own hoodies for his new locker and wouldn’t let me write his name on any of his notebooks. When I offered to cross-check his schedule with the map he brought home from orientation, he closed his bedroom door halfway and said “I got it.” I stood outside the door for a minute, listening to him play that same Minecraft playlist he’s had since 5th grade, the one he swears he doesn’t listen to anymore. I used to teach 4th grade, before I quit to stay home when my second kid was born, and I used to tell parents this day would come. I’d say “the whole point is to get them ready to go do their own thing” like it was that simple. I never thought I’d be the one standing in the kitchen crying over burnt oatmeal because my kid didn’t want me to walk him to the bus stop.
It’s not that he’s struggling right now. He’s excited, actually. He talked all last week about meeting his best friend Javi at the stop, about trying out for JV soccer after school, about how the math teacher has a four star rating on that teacher rating website all the kids post on. The hurt isn’t for him. It’s for me, and for the version of the little boy that used to hold my hand so tight his nails left marks on my palm on the first day of middle school. That’s the thing no one tells you: when your kid hits this step, the heartbreak isn’t about their fear. It’s about your own adjustment to suddenly being less needed.
I’ve made a lot of missteps this past month, working through this. I asked him three nights in a row if he was nervous about starting high school, and by the third night he snapped and said “No, why do you keep asking me that?” I went to my friend who’s a high school counselor to vent about him shutting down, and she gave me the first concrete tip that stuck: stop asking big, open-ended emotion questions right now. She said when you’re the one going through a huge change, having someone ask you “are you nervous?” over and over just feels like they’re expecting you to be scared, even when you’re not. Instead, she told me to ask tiny, specific questions about neutral things. Instead of “how was your first day?” I can ask “what was the weirdest thing on the lunch menu today?” or “did any teacher have a rule that doesn’t make any sense?” It’s easier for them to answer, it gives you a foot in the door without pressure.
Another thing she told me that I’ve been testing out: give them a clear back door for when things do go wrong, without making a big deal out of it. This morning, instead of saying “text me if you need anything, okay?” which feels like a hundred pounds of pressure, I just said “I’ll be home all day. If it’s too much and you want to leave early, just call me, I’ll come get you no questions asked.” He just nodded, but I saw his shoulders relax a little. He doesn’t have to perform being brave all day if he knows he can opt out without having to explain why.
I also had to unlearn the instinct to fix every tiny problem he mentions. A couple of days ago, he told me he forgot his locker combination during practice and stood there for 10 minutes red-faced before the janitor helped him. My first instinct was to say “do you want me to write it on a little tag you can tape inside your phone case?” But I stopped myself, and just said “That’s so awkward. I remember that happened to me my first day of high school too. Did anyone laugh?” He said a couple of kids did, but it was fine, and then we went back to watching that stupid skateboarding show he likes. If I’d offered to fix it, he would’ve pulled back and said he didn’t need my help anyway. Most of the time, he just needs to tell me the annoying part, not have me solve it.
The biggest thing I’ve had to remember, though, is that my hurt is my responsibility, not his. It’s okay that I’m sad today. It’s okay that I stood at the window crying after the bus left. But I didn’t cry in front of him. I didn’t say “you’re growing up too fast” or make him hug me longer than he wanted to, just because I needed the comfort. He’s got enough to deal with on his first day without having to make sure mom is okay. If you need to grieve the little kid that’s gone, do it in the kitchen after the bus leaves, or in the car on the way home from drop off. Don’t put that weight on him.
It’s 2:30 now. He’ll be home in an hour and a half. I’ve got his favorite chocolate chip cookies in the fridge, and I’m not going to bombard him at the door with questions. I’ll say hi, hand him a cookie, and leave him alone to decompress if he wants. If he wants to tell me everything that happened, I’ll listen. If he just wants to go to his room and play video games, I’ll leave him be. I don’t need to know every detail today to stay connected.
My heart still feels a little raw, if I’m honest. I don’t know how the rest of the year is going to go. He’ll forget his lunch some days, he’ll fail a test, he’ll have days where he comes home crying. He’ll also have days where he comes home glowing, talking about a new friend or a good game or a test he aced. All I can do is stay here, keep the door unlocked, and be ready when he needs me. It’s not the job I thought I’d have right now, but it’s the one I’ve got. And that’s enough, for today.
Please indicate: Thinking In Educating » Why Starting High School Hurts More As A Parent Than You Expect (Small, Practical Things That Help)