Today, I sent my youngest child, Oliver, off to kindergarten. I expected to feel ecstatic about this milestone. Oliver is my energetic one, and my days with him often revolve around managing his boundless enthusiasm, which I affectionately call “damage control.” By the end of the day, I am utterly worn out, often on the verge of tears. The thought of having a few hours to myself feels like a dream. I could take my daughter to the museum or enjoy a peaceful stroll in the park without constantly scanning for potential mishaps.
As I tucked him into bed last night, he asked the usual questions a child entering school might ponder. “Do I have to take my school supplies back and forth every day?”
“No, sweetheart. They’ll stay at school.”
“But what if I have homework?”
“You’ll bring home the work that needs to be done here, and we’ll have everything else you need.”
“What if I need scissors?”
“We have those at home.”
“Where?”
“Not telling you now. I’ll get them when the time comes.”
“What if my teacher yells at me?”
“Why would she do that?”
“Because I’m bad. I always mess up. What if she hates me?”
What? At that moment, my heart sank. I never realized Oliver felt this way about himself. Sure, he often needs reminders about household rules, and yes, he probably spends more time in his room than his siblings do. This time is usually spent reflecting on why throwing toys across the yard is not okay or why we can’t leave the bathroom sink running. Sometimes, he’s sent to his room for expressing his frustrations loudly when his favorite competitor on a show doesn’t win.
Despite this, we’ve never labeled him as “bad.” My husband and I strive to respond positively, even during challenging moments, such as when his little sister walks in with a Sharpie mustache. We reward his good behavior with stickers and praise, constantly reminding him of our love and how fortunate we feel to be his parents. Yet, he still sees himself as “bad.” Hearing him say that broke my heart.
He is so young, yet he already shows signs of self-judgment that accompany ADHD. This is my sweet Oliver, with his bright blue eyes and kind heart—the boy who covers his sister with a blanket when she drifts off on the couch and cheers for his older sibling at baseball games. He even dances around his room, singing into a toy microphone when he thinks no one is watching. My sweet, caring boy thinks he deserves “hate” from his new teacher.
As he walked toward the towering school doors, I felt tears welling up. When did those doors become so massive? He merged into a sea of children, partly obscured by his oversized backpack and the older kids surrounding him.
He didn’t look back, my brave little Oliver. I know he’s nervous, but he boldly stepped into this new chapter—a world I hope will welcome him and appreciate his gentle spirit. A world that will recognize the boy who once sprinted two blocks to check on his brother after a biking fall.
Walking back to my car, the tears flowed freely. “What’s wrong, Mommy?” my daughter, Emma, asked.
I tried to regain my composure, clearing my throat to articulate my feelings. “I’m just going to miss that boy so much,” I replied, choking on my sobs.
With her sweet understanding, Emma said, “I know, Mommy. He’s my best boy. I will really miss my good boy.”
Oh, how I hope the world sees in him what we do.
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Summary
This heartfelt piece reflects on the emotional experience of sending a child with ADHD to kindergarten. The author shares personal insights about her son Oliver, who struggles with feelings of inadequacy despite his loving nature. The narrative emphasizes the importance of support and understanding from both family and the educational system as children navigate new challenges.