New people, new gears, new tasks, new rules, new climate, new landscape, new food, new school… school?

For Zaydon, the idea of school was completely foreign. He had never been separated from us before. It was his first experience of holding himself in a new environment without Dad or Mom. So we started small. We dropped him off at our friend’s and heard that he cried for an hour before eventually exhausting himself. He then spent the rest of the time sitting by the window, watching to see if we were coming back. 

There was another layer to his worry, too. At home, we primarily speak Mandarin Chinese, so he had never been in an English-only environment. Communication had always been one of his strengths, and suddenly he was entering a place where he could not rely on it in quite the same way. To prepare for school, we practiced three sentences with him: “My name is Zaydon.” “Can you help me?” and “I want to go potty.” We practiced them over and over again, hoping that three little sentences might give him something to hold onto when everything else was new.

Then came the first day of school. Before leaving the house, he repeatedly told us that he did not want to go. We talked about what might happen and what would be waiting for him there. At first, he was excited. Then he realized what circle time eventually led to- Mom and Dad leaving. He would stand completely still during circle time, almost as if he were hoping that if he stayed very still, he could somehow keep the time from moving forward. After a few weeks, he learned the last verse before parents left. When that verse came, we could see him beginning to turn inward. And then we would leave. He would collapse onto the ground and cry like the whole world was ending. At pick-up, there were often tear marks mixed with dirt and sunshine soup on his face. His lips would have red marks around them from pressing tightly together for a long time. He would be quiet and withdrawn on the car ride all the way home. “I don't want to go to school anymore.” 

But somewhere in the middle of all of this, school started coming home with him. One of his little figures became “Ms. Sommer,” and he showed us how she waters the plants. He taught us the lantern walk song and instructed us to walk in circles. We learned very quickly that we were doing it wrong if we were too fast or too loud or if we forgot to hold the imaginative lantern. We even recruited his dolls to go to school in our pretend play. We played drop-off with puppets. Sometimes, in the middle of playing, he would tell us, “I don't know what to do when…” and we would figure out together what he could say or who he could ask for help.

As much as we wanted to attend BFF ourselves, we are chronologically too old. So we asked him to teach us everything. We played the games, sang the songs, and tried to follow all the routines. Not going to lie, it was a challenge for all of us. There is only so much accuracy and clarity you can expect from the relay of information from a toddler. But we had fun. It felt like putting quilt pieces together. He would bring home one little piece of school, we would play with it, and then another piece would emerge. Slowly, we started to see him threading these little pieces together, making sense of what school entailed for him.

We also started noticing school appearing in places we hadn't expected. At home, everyone had to follow him onto a train to go up the stairs while he sang, “Mommy and Daddy, hop on the train, together.” He brought home songs, games, people, skills, stories. By now, we’ve patted countless cakes, blew countless finger candles, planted countless finger seeds, greeted each finger for the millionth time, and so much more. One day, at pick-up, he said, “I have a friend called XXX, and I played with him.” It was a brief mention, but it left echoes in our ears. We knew that he’s found his courage and his community. 

That didn't mean the hard feelings disappeared. We tried not to solve the problem for him. When he was sad, we stayed with him in the sadness. Sometimes there wasn't anything to fix. We could only be there with him. We wanted him to know that being sad was okay, that missing us was okay, and that difficult feelings did not mean something was wrong. The goal was never for him to stop feeling sad when we left. We hoped he would eventually discover for himself that he could feel sad and still be okay.

We tried to do the same thing with the people at school. We wholeheartedly trusted Ms. Sommer and her leadership, and we wanted him to feel that trust too. Children notice these things. They notice who we are comfortable with, who we trust, and how we talk about the people we leave them with. On the days that were simply harder than others, we put a little “protective magic” into some tiny trinkets and let him keep one in his pocket if he wanted some company from us. It wasn't meant to replace his own ability to cope. It was just a backup- a little piece of home for the days when he needed it.

By the end of the school year, he started waving at us and shouting, “Bye, Dad!” “Bye, Mom!” We could hear him chat with his friends while we waited in line at pick-up. When his name was called, he would run up the stairs with shiny big eyes, excited to tell us about the day: climbing the ladder to pick apples, going on hikes, the bunnies digging and getting lost again. “Do you know how to make tea? Let me show you.” The same child who once stood frozen during circle time, dreading for the moment we would leave, was now running toward us to tell us his adventures while we were gone.

Last night, we asked him what he would tell another child who was sad when their parents left. “Really soon they will come,” he said. “What if they're really, really sad?” “Go find Ms. Sommer, Ms. Raven, and Ms. Thea.” Then he thought for a moment and added, “If they're too scared, you can come find me and I'll help you tell the teachers.” And what can parents do to help? “Tell the children that the teachers are safe people.”

With repetition, reassurance, and lots and lots of love, the little pieces of home and school wove themselves into a tapestry. What was once new became known.

Known teachers, known friends, known gears, known routines, known menu, known songs, known school. And somewhere along the way, known became security. Known became confidence. And perhaps most importantly, known became a foundation for courage to grow even when Dad and Mom weren’t there.