The First—and the Last

The night before kindergarten, everything was ready. Her backpack was packed. Her “kindergarten” sticker was placed to help teachers guide her to the right classroom when her bus drops her off. She picked out her outfit. I braided her hair. Her supplies were organized. Her lunch was made. We were prepared.

We got her down early and I finished watching The Poop Cruise on Netflix (a cinematic masterpiece, truly), turned off the TV, and then, just like that, I started crying. Not about the Poop Cruise, though.

I’ve held it together for weeks. But the moment the house went quiet and I was alone with the weight of it all, it hit me WHY I was crying. Not because she’s going to school (she’s been in daycare and preschool since she was 14 months old, full-time). We’re used to school days. But this is different.

It was a realization that every first milestone with an only child… is also a last. Each one is a mini heartbreak, a tiny chapter closing. A reminder that some parts of life are behind us now—not ahead. It is a marker of time passing, of growing older, of letting go.

We’ve always known she’d be our one and only. My husband even got a vasectomy this year, so this wasn’t a wishy-washy decision. But that certainty doesn’t soften the grief tucked inside goodbye. There’s no “next time.” No “we’ll do it differently with the second.” This is it. Every milestone is a final act in a one-night-only show.

This morning, she was full of joy—dancing, twirling, tripping over her feet. Pure kindergarten energy. I was trying to mirror her energy, keep it light. But as the bus pulled up, loud and unfamiliar, our composed girl, the one who hates to cry in front of people, began to hold back tears. The bouncing kid of ours went still.

After I walked her onto the bus, she sat in the front seat, her sweet face looking out the window, her expression was one of fear while her head was shaking “no” at us. Kris and I stood on the curb nodding “yes,” giving her thumbs-ups, sending hearts with our hands, trying to will her into bravery. My tears were hidden behind my sunglasses.

After Kris consoled me, the neighbor moms hugged me, and one handed me a mimosa and shared that she cried every single year until her son hit third grade. Thank goodness I took the day off work, because I knew I’d be a mess.

Yesterday, when I asked what she wanted me to write in the “I like to” section of on her first-day-of-kindergarten sign, she thought for a moment and said:

“Paint. Swim. Help.”

That last one got me.

She has this gentle way of moving through the world with a strong moral compass (sometimes self-righteousness) and curiosity (sometimes nosey), like she already understands that being good is more important than being first or loud or best.

And more than anything, I hope she never loses that.

Because being gentle and empathetic in this world isn’t easy. It’s not always what gets rewarded. It doesn’t earn you the most gold stars or get your hand picked first. In fact, sometimes it is getting your heart bruised just for caring.

But what a superpower it is.

To be soft in a world that can be so harsh. To stay open in a world that so often teaches you to be closed. If she can hold onto that, if the world doesn’t harden her too much or convince her to shrink, I know she’ll be more than okay.

And that’s the kind of strength I admire most.

So yeah, she’s going to be great in kindergarten. But even more than that, I just hope she stays exactly who she is. Because she’s a good kid. The kind this world needs more of.