The Exhausted Dad: When they don’t look back

My baby boy doesn’t need me anymore.

At least that’s how it felt when I dropped him off for the first day of school.

This week my son began first grade at a different elementary school than his older siblings. I thought it’d be a tough transition, especially since his older sister (now third grade) used to walk her little brother into the school for kindergarten every day holding his backpack like he was an untrained puppy.

The boy starting kindergarten last year was a tough experience for both of us. I went back to school myself, and I so wasn’t available to take him into kindergarten on the first day, something I had done previously with all my kids. I missed the cathartic moment where the parents sob while watching their youngest baby walk into school for the first time. I felt the pain, for sure, but I needed to have the in-person experience to accept the official end to those “early parenting” years.

Last year, my son struggled through the first few days. He thought the toilets were too big, and he didn’t feel comfortable approaching other kids on the playground. He wanted to stay home, and, after I experienced a rough first few weeks back in college, I wanted to accommodate both of us and officially delay the next chapters of our lives.

He stuck with it though, and after a few days, he grew to absolutely love kindergarten. I settled into my new life too. Sorta. I feel like I’m still drowning…but, well, OK, that’s more a conversation for my therapist.

I didn’t have class in the morning on the first day of school for the kids this year, so I took the responsibility to take them. The night before, my son expressed some trepidation.

“Dad, I’m both nervous AND excited.”

I told him it’d be OK and that I could walk him on the first day just to make sure he was comfortable.

“No, it’s OK, I know what to do.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. At all. But I had confidence that he’d change his tune before morning.

Sadly, as I parked the car in front of the school, he continued to reassure me.

“I can walk over to the playground! I got it!”

I felt a stinging pain in my chest. I tried to ignore it and told him, “It’s the first day, bud, let’s walk over together.”

He didn’t object. He also didn’t wait for me. He started running ahead, eager to make it to the playground.

I just about collapsed from heartbreak.

At the gate, he gave me a (half-hearted) hug and told me he loved me (DO YOU?!) and he walked over to the line marked by his teacher’s name, dropped his backpack and strolled to the playground. He seemed nervous to me, because it took him a few moments for him to find someone he recognized. And yes, I watched him out there until the bell rang, waiting for him to look back for me. Give me something, kid!

But no. He found a friend, talked to him a bit, randomly sprinted out into the field two or three times, then went up and talked to two other kids. Not. One. Single. Look. Back.

I slumped back to the car with that sad Charlie Brown music playing in my head. I sat in the car, held back tears (should’ve let them out) and began to scold myself for having that vasectomy a few years back. I need another baby! Someone get me another baby!

When I came home later that evening, my son greeted me with a huge, “Daddy! You’re home! I love you!” Did it sound like maybe my wife prompted him to do that? Maybe. But it felt good anyway.

My oldest daughter, meanwhile, got dropped off at middle school earlier that day by my wife. She reported the same experience — our daughter didn’t appear to look back at her. Then she barged into our room upset.

“That’s not true! I looked back three times hoping to see you and when I didn’t see you, I almost cried!”

OK, so obviously I needed to take the 12-year-old to school instead. Also, maybe, forbid all my children from moving out of the house until they’re at least 30 years old. Or I should get a puppy.

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Tyler Wilson is a freelance writer, full-time student and parent to four kids, ages 6-12. He is exhausted. He can be reached at twilson@cdapress.com.