“Why do all of these people already have friends?” I thought to myself looking around the elementary school cafeteria during parents night for kindergarten. Clumps of parents sat at long tables, chatting away. Even my anti-social husband had wandered off to talk to someone he knew from preschool. I stifled the urge to get out my phone and stare urgently at the screen. Instead, I read the multi-colored handouts with an intense stare. Being there brought back so many experiences that color my perspective on my kids today.

Sitting by myself drew up the memory of sitting at a very similar table in fourth grade. I had tried to sit on the edge of the group of girls, but they told me I couldn’t. Instead, I had to sit a couple seats away. Looking back, I know it was because I burst into every conversation with an interruption. But at the time, I literally had no idea what I did wrong. I just knew they didn’t like me.

That pattern repeated itself again and again. All of the girls except me knowing the lyrics to one song in fifth grade and singing them in unison. Gum in my hair in seventh grade. Getting my poetry notebook stolen in eighth. I had friends, but they were few and far between.

It wasn’t until high school that I found my community. My now-husband, then-boyfriend was part of that group of friends, as were a number of folks I’m still close with today.

With that background, I furrowed my brow and worried as my son headed out the door to kindergarten this week. He who shimmies down the aisle of the restaurant. He who loves bunnies so very much and doesn’t care a lick about superheroes. He who gets epically upset when things don’t go the way he expects them to. He who sings the endless songs in his head out loud. My unique, beautiful, weird kid.

At parents’ night, thoughts tumbled around my mind. Will he play with the other kids? Will they play with him? Will he get upset if they don’t play the game like he wants to? Is his Daniel Tiger backpack too babyish?

But in that cavalcade of questions, I realized I needed to stop and remember something important: He is not me. My difficulties are not his. My circumstances and struggles are not his. He will have his own challenges. But they are not mine.

I need to let him live his own, little-kid childhood instead of avoiding the worst parts of mine.

The next day, we had a sneak peek into the school, where the kids can see their classrooms. He was literally jumping up and down. Exploring the classroom, he ran up to the hook for his backpack.

Seeing his excitement washed away so many of my worries. He is ready. When he stepped on the bus on Tuesday morning, I had tears in my eyes. But they were tears of pride, not worry.

[This originally ran on Facebook in September 2018.]