Going Not-Back-To-School Shopping

I took the girls back-to-school shopping last weekend. The act of back-to-school shopping has never been a top activity of mine because I return home poor and exhausted. The girls are equally passionate about office supplies as they are picky about clothing. We spend hours, standing in the middle of the aisles, pouring over the school supply list, ensuring we select the exact brand and quantity of folders, loose leaf paper, crayons, markers, pencils, glue, erasers, notebooks, and the perfect pencil pouch and overpriced backpack. We spend another two hours agonizing over tops, bottoms, skirts and dresses that look adorable on the rack but feel uncomfortable on the body. Everyone ends up a little sweaty and pretty disgruntled as the clothes come off the hanger and onto the kids before being tossed on the floor, or over the door, after I've been kicked out of the dressing room. We wait in a very long line to spend five hundred dollars, mostly on the supplies, and at least one outfit that is acceptable for the first day of school photo/post, which will mostly feature the backpacks that cost a semester of college tuition that will be dirty by November and tossed in the closet the following June.

If we end up still smiling, we indulge in endless salad and breadsticks at the Olive Garden. The girls insist on bringing in as many of the purchases as possible, lining up the supplies with backpacks on their laps. They spend the next week carefully organizing the supplies in the Cadillac backpacks and pleading to wear their outfits before the first day.

I'm not crafty enough to create a fancy sign for the first day but I always manage to grab some markers and 2 sheets of copier paper, and draw bubble numbers, reflecting their grade levels. The girls, usually nervous and a little teary, hold the paper signs in our driveway for the obligatory photo before embarking on the big yellow bus. Andy and I both walk up to the door, greet our favorite, long-time bus driver Dave with a "Hey! Can you believe it's time again?!" and stand by the road, waving at the back of the bus until it drives out of sight.

While we've done this routine for nine years, I always feel a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes as my children leave the nest to grow without me. I am just one small part of my kids' life journey. Attending school is the beginning of their demonstration of independence and bravery. There is something profound about each child starting school because it marked the end of each of my babies, at least to both of my children. While I have seen my big-eyed, sweet little girls wearing a way too big (and expensive) backpack and bright-white sneakers getting ready to head into the wilderness, my kids have seen themselves as big girls, explorers, ready to take on the world, to make their mark-without their mom.

The clothes, the supplies, the shoes and the backpacks are physical symbols of their self efficacy, all of the back-to-school purchases and pomp and circumstance are my way of supporting each girl in believing in themselves. As they step onto the bus, they are the heroes of their own stories and I am their champion, cheering from the sidelines.

This year's trip was completely different. Some stores were closed, others had few clothing items on display. The dressing rooms were closed so we guessed on sizes and crossed our fingers that everything would fit. We were one of a few families with supply lists in hand, searching for pens and notebooks. When we got to the backpack aisle, both girls presented me with their top options. Caroline and I compromised when she offered to give me ten dollars of her own money because her top choice was more than my hard limit. Charlotte picked a cheaper backpack so she could get the matching water bottle.

We stood six feet apart in line and waited for the cashier to spray every surface before the girls excitedly placed all of their items on the conveyor belt. I cringed at the total purchase amount and loudly thanked the cashier so she'd hear me from behind my mask and the plexiglass. I squirted sanitizer on our hands as we exited the store. We did not eat at Olive Garden after, but in retrospect, I wonder why we didn't order curbside pick up. The girls held their shopping bags in their arms, that back-to-school energy emanating from the back seat. I heard Charlotte ask Caroline if fifth graders have to change their clothes for PE. Caroline told her yes, and that the teachers would make her put on deodorant after, too.

I held my breath and held back tears, trying to swallow the lump in my throat that has started to feel like a permanent part of my body. Riding home, I felt a different kind of exhaustion and overwhelm than any previous year, knowing that my fears and concerns about my girls are not irrational and my feelings about the year ahead are by no means a parental right of passage. Not one, more- experienced mom or dad can tell me that it is all going to be ok because they do not know if it is going to ok. Nobody knows.

That evening the girls organized their backpacks and hung their first day outfits in their closets. They showed off their pencil pouches to Andy and lectured me about forgetting to buy sneakers. We learned, in the school Zoom update five days later, that the girls will not go to their brick and mortar school two days a week, but will instead start the year behind a screen in our dining room. They will not stand in the driveway, wearing new outfits, and sporting fancy backpacks, shiny water bottles in hand. I won't hastily draw the numbers 5 and 9 on copier paper and thrust them into their hands before Dave stops at the end of our driveway. Andy and and I won't wave good bye to the back of the bus, watching it until it moves out of our eye sight.

I will cry, but for many different reasons. My girls are certainly not babies and, during this pandemic, they have demonstrated new capacities for bravery and independence. I am so proud of them and thankful for their resiliency at a time when I, at 42 years old, don't feel brave or resilient. Like them, I hope that they will return to school very soon- or at least before they don't want to use those damn, new backpacks.