Growing Wildflowers :: Preparing Two {Very} Different Hearts For School

My daughter is a storm that greets you at midnight. Grand in its entrance. Waking you just enough to lose your dream. Then unleashing fury when you attempt to ignore its presence. Magnificent, but alarming. A sight to behold. 

My son is a late afternoon shower. Easy to miss if you don’t look up. Pleasant enough for the squirrels. Never quite sure if he wants to ruin your afternoon plans or let the sun in. Peaceful, but sporadic. Fits in well among the flowers. 

They both produce rain. But affect your mood and attire differently. 

And by the end of this month, these storms will upgrade to Kindergartner and Preschooler. I’m not even sure if I am supposed to capitalize their ranks, but I do so because it makes them feel special. 

And I don’t like to anger them this close to the school year. 

Growing Wildflowers :: Preparing Two {Very} Different Hearts For School

They couldn’t be more different. One is always hot. The other won’t leave home without two jackets. One likes Bluegrass. The other requests Kidz Bop Volume 36, on repeat. One will only be served with a yellow plate and green fork. The other eats off the ground. 

You get it.

And because of these vastly different personalities, I am trying to gather up enough strength, patience, and prayers to prepare them {and their teachers} for their first big day. 

This is new territory. And I’m not sure if wishing on stars and earlier bedtimes are enough to make it right for everyone. But we’re going to try. For their teachers. And our sanity. 

There are just a few things I would like to tell them… 

Growing Wildflowers :: Preparing Two {Very} Different Hearts For School

What I want to say to my son’s teacher ::

It’s going to take him a second. All of it. He won’t be the first to raise his hand or offer you a hug.

Doesn’t mean he doesn’t know the answer. Or that he doesn’t know how to comfort. 

He’s just observing. And thinking. Harder than most. And before he makes a move, he wants to know the space and the people in it. 

But when he does hug you, he’ll linger. And you’ll feel the world in that embrace. 

I taught him that. 

He’s cautious, but not timid. And he doesn’t care if you don’t like his hair style–because he does. 

He can’t dance, but that has never stopped him. 

He wants to be a singer, but doesn’t care to be on stage.  

His mind is fascinating. The questions he asks, impressive for most adults. And endless. 

Witty, omg, he is witty. And he knows it–he’ll hit you with a smirk or wink to really undo you. 

Growing Wildflowers :: Preparing Two {Very} Different Hearts For School

He’s a perfectionist. And it might work against him. He’s going to work hard to make sure his uppercase “A” is hitting all the right spots. His anger might show up when it doesn’t. His frustration might let out a cry of defeat. He works well with an eraser and encouragement. He’s going to need a moment.

He’ll be quick to apologize. And he’ll mean it. He’ll talk about it later that evening with me before he goes to sleep. Because his heart will be heavy. And he’ll worry about you. 

He LOVES books, surrounds himself with them, but doesn’t know how to read. Just hasn’t shown much interest in learning… yet. Pete the Cat is a favorite. We’re hoping Pete will help. Or at least, hold his hand.

He excels in anything that involves numbers and mixing; my little scientist. 

He wants to join the Robotics team. And he’ll consider soccer. 

He won’t kill a bug. Matter of fact, he’ll stand in front of it if you approach with a swatter. And I suspect he would do the same for a student; stand up to any bully. 

He’s scared of Miss Viola Swamp. That’s like, super important to know. 

His heart, oh his heart, is so big. He can’t handle a full reading of The Giving Tree. 

His preschool teachers said he had an old soul. One of them said she felt like she knew him better than any student she has ever taught. Because of their conversations. Because of his heart. Because he shared with her why his favorite color is yellow and how he taught his sister how to add and why he isn’t into Superheroes, but loves Lava Girl.

So, remember that in the beginning–because it’ll take him a second. 

Growing Wildflowers :: Preparing Two {Very} Different Hearts For School

What I want to say to my daughter’s teacher :: 

She’s coming in hot–prepare yourself. She’ll likely moonwalk into the classroom. 

You should applaud. She expects that. 

She’s going to hug you. HARD. Your torso, your face, definitely your legs. She tends to nuzzle a bit, like a cat. And sometimes she’s extra sticky, so bring wipes. 

She’s dramatic. Seriously, Oscar worthy. She’ll pout her lips, throw up her fist, start singing “Fight Song” when she doesn’t get her way. 

It’ll pass. She’ll wipe her eyes and offer her apologies. She’ll throw out a smile that showcases her extra deep dimples and you’ll forget why you doubted her sweetness. 

Growing Wildflowers :: Preparing Two {Very} Different Hearts For School

She wants to be a dancer or maybe a race car driver when she grows up. Still undecided. But definitely not a construction worker–that is SO last year. 

She’s joyous, overflowing with the good stuff. Spreading it around, giving it away in baskets. 

It physically pains her to leave a dog once she has started petting it. Like, makes her belly hurt. Or so she’s told me… 

She LOVES her curly hair. She wrote a song about it. Sings it in the morning while enjoying her second smoothie. 

She’s independent, fiercely so. But her heart is soft; I sometimes forget how fragile. Because she is the first one to comfort another. And I think she’s prepared to be the rock of her friends. She’s already mine. 

Like her brother, she adores books. And she’s been memorizing the words since she was two. She’ll call you out if you miss a word. Don’t feel too bad about it. 

She is the most expressive person you will ever meet. Her face changes every 2.75 seconds. You’ll want to laugh. She’s counting on that. But she doesn’t quite know what to do with her hands. Lots of flailing. She calls it dancing. 

She wants to join the soccer team, Girl Scouts, ballet, gymnastics, karate, and football. This year. Really. 

She is unlike any human you’ll ever meet. Ready to share her stories AND new shoes with you. And even though I know you are aware, and that every other parent of a preschooler has told you this, but she’s going to miss her mommy. The one she’s been with, almost every day, for the last four years. She might be slow to accept this new norm; she might cry more than you would like at the beginning. But don’t let her big heart fool you–she’s ready for this. She’s been ready for you since big brother started school last year and left her behind. She wants to learn. She wants to make best friends. She wants to show you all that she can do.

The applause will help. I’m just hoping you enjoy the show. 

Growing Wildflowers :: Preparing Two {Very} Different Hearts For School

What I want to tell them about their mother ::

Hi.

I’m new here. 

Terrified that I screwed up. That you’ll notice right away how often they watched their iPad or ate powdered donuts for breakfast or that I didn’t exactly enjoy playing with trains. 

I’m scared you’ll think I should have done more. I’m scared you won’t see the things I did do well. Matter of fact, I’m sure you won’t.

I SO want to tell you about them. And I really want a pat on the back. I’d settle for an overeager high five. Or just a knowing smile. 

But I also want you to know I did my best. I am doing my best. 

I want to tell you about all of our adventures. And how we survived two international moves. How they’ve traveled the world. And how I taught them the importance of being kind. Even if I didn’t teach them addition. 

I want to tell you that if they want to be writers, I hope that’s a reflection of me. If they want to code, you can thank their daddy. And if they want to save the world, you can probably trace that back to our PJ Masks Monday marathon. 

I want you to know that I use to be cool and patient and laid-back. But I haven’t been those things in awhile. I’m working on it. Please excuse my neediness–I’m having trouble letting go off their sticky hands. 

I want you to know that I might not be the Class Mom, but I you can count on me for the big things. And I’ll always make volunteering a priority. I might even attempt to bake. 

Also, I dress like a nerdy adolescent. And if I make too many Harry Potter references, you can let me know. 

I’ll want to say all of these things. Probably more. But I know at the beginning, we don’t have that kind of time. And ultimately, they will just need to learn each student’s peculiarities and heart. 

So, instead. I’ll keep it short. 

What I WILL say to both of their teachers :: 

Thank you. 

We are so happy to meet you. 

We’re a little nervous about today. But excited. 

Please let me know how I can help. At any time. In any way. 

Thank you. 

And because I am their mother and they were blessed with the best parts of me, I will probably tear up a bit while speaking {a bit dramatic, I know}, salute or curtsey {I never know what to do with my hands}, and end it with a tight hug, one that lingers a bit too long. I’ll try my best not to nuzzle. 

To all you lucky/scared ones with a child starting school for the first time, I feel you.

To all the teachers greeting their kids for the first time, I see you. 

And to my wildflowers on their first day, I can’t wait to watch you grow. 


Need more back-to-school tips? Check out The Ultimate Back to School Guide for Houston Moms!

The Ultimate Back-to-School Guide for Houston Moms | Houston Moms Blog


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