School starts in two weeks, which means I am currently practicing being ready by 7:15 in the morning. Evelyn and I do not actually need to leave until somewhere between 7:30 and 7:45, and the school is right across the street, but I am a routine person. I thrive when there is a plan and some kind of structure, especially when everything else feels like it is changing. So, for now, 7:15 is the goal. Apparently preschool begins with a dress rehearsal no one asked for.
Our mornings have always been pretty simple, mostly led by the first demand for whipped cream and waffles. Evelyn likes to graze. She will eat some breakfast, wander away to become busy somewhere else, then return to announce, “I hunger, Mommy,” as if no one has offered her food in days. This morning, her brain was apparently telling her she was “so hungry” at 7:36, despite the breakfast still sitting on the table. What she really, really, really wanted was fruit snacks. School mornings may be an adjustment for both of us, especially when fruit snacks become emergency provisions minutes before we need to leave.
The routine is not only about teaching her that breakfast has a beginning and an end. I am also preparing the rest of the house for the fact that my availability is going to shift. I will be getting both of us ready while everyone else is getting ready, and I won’t be able to stop in the middle because someone else needs something. After twenty-three years of helping children get where they need to go, I know how quickly everyone else’s morning can become mine. I am starting early because I want to ease the anxiety for both of us. I remember rushing my older girls out the door because I had to get to work, without always considering that their emotions were not operating on the same timeline as my job. I cannot change those mornings, but I can do this one differently. Evelyn’s home, our routine, and the faces she has known for the last four years are what feel safe to her. She has never even seen the inside of the school. I can pack the bag and leave early, but I cannot know how she will feel when a teacher she does not know takes her from me at the door.
If ChildWatch taught us anything, it is that separation is not always a quick hug and a cheerful wave. I can picture the walk to school and us arriving with plenty of time because I have been practicing like we are training for a very low-stakes Olympic event. What I cannot picture yet is the walk home without her. My mind will probably go a thousand miles a minute trying to decide what comes next. I want to write, meditate, and work out because I finally have a few uninterrupted hours. I also know there is a reasonable chance I will come home, stare at the quiet house, and forget every plan I made.
The physical routine is the part I can control. Right now, I am up by six, Evelyn is up by 6:15, and by 7:15 we are both dressed, my makeup is done, she is fed, and I have my protein drink and coffee. By 7:40 the dishwasher is running, the coffee carafe is cleaned out, the laundry is tumbling away the wrinkles it earned from sitting overnight, the beds are made, and Evelyn is watching a movie while I write. On paper, I look impressively prepared. My body has other opinions. My sinuses are doing whatever they want, Flo has apparently stopped consulting a calendar, and the anxiety sitting on my chest does not care how organized the kitchen is. Rude, honestly.
A new school year changes more than our mornings. In a blended family, it also means the quiet of summer begins to disappear. For us, the reduced contact with Nick’s ex gives way to more messages, decisions, events, and reasons to occupy the same spaces. I know I am not alone in feeling that quiet anxiety build as August moves along. Summer gives many blended families a little breathing room. Then school starts, and showing up for the kids means preparing ourselves to tolerate discomfort they should never have to carry for us.
That is part of what my body is preparing for too. This is Zoey’s senior year, which means there will be decisions Nick and his ex have to make together, even though the last decade has shown how difficult agreement can be. I am holding space for a girl trying to feel supported by the person she wants it from most, while knowing I cannot create that support for her. I can only keep showing up, sometimes in rooms I would never choose for myself. I do it because I love the girls more than I dislike her. That is the simplest and truest version of it. I can dislike the dynamic and still keep the focus where it belongs. Both things can be true.
Maybe that is why this school year feels so much bigger than preschool. This is my last first day with a pre-K child, while two of my girls begin their senior year. It is a beginning and an ending happening at the same time. Emily was my original “last baby.” I never thought I would feel the pressure of an empty nest when I still have Evelyn to put through school, but this is Emily. I can barely bring myself to type about her senior year, much less the possibility that Wyoming may be where she lands afterward.
A couple of weeks ago, I read Iguana Miss You to Evelyn and felt my heart crack open in a way that is very hard to explain to a four-year-old who just wants you to turn the page. She was listening to a story. I was thinking about all the leaving that comes with raising children. We spend years getting them ready to go, then act surprised when they do. This year I am walking one daughter into her first classroom while watching two others begin the year that will carry them out of high school. Somehow, I am supposed to be excited for all of them without grieving what is ending.
There is more leaving on the horizon. Zoey is planning for the Air Force. Emily may move across the country. Ava will eventually figure out what comes next for her too. I worry about all of them, including what changes for the one left behind when a sister who has always helped balance the room is no longer there. At the same time, I am excited for their adventures. We have raised girls who can imagine lives beyond this area. I cannot tell them to trust themselves, choose their own paths, and see more of the world, then ask them to stay close enough that I never have to feel their absence. My mind can wander toward downsizing, moving closer to family, traveling with Evelyn, and even homeschooling later, but I do not have to turn every thought into a five-year plan before preschool begins. That is apparently another routine I need to practice.
For now, I am trying to stay with what is directly in front of me. I can practice our morning, label the supplies, pack the extra clothes in the Ziploc bag, and make sure Evelyn has eaten something more substantial than whipped cream and fruit snacks. Labels may be the closest motherhood gets to control. I can walk her across the street and help her feel as safe as possible. I can show up for senior events, support the girls as they make decisions, and tolerate the adult discomfort that comes with loving children in a blended family.
What I cannot do is organize myself out of feeling any of it. I have stopped myself from crying more times than I can count because focusing on the day-to-day feels easier. I can have every bag packed and still not be ready to walk home alone. I can know that leaving is exactly what we have raised them to do and still wish time would slow down. I can be proud of the lives they are choosing and still grieve the version of our family that exists right now.
So maybe the person I am really trying to prepare for school is me. Evelyn needs a breakfast routine and a little reassurance. I am the one preparing for a year that will ask me to let go at both ends, show up in uncomfortable places, and accept that the most important parts cannot be packed neatly into a labeled bag. I will still have us ready by 7:15. Of course I will. I am just starting to understand that being prepared and being ready are not always the same thing.
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If today’s essay felt like someone put words to something you’ve been carrying, I think you’ll find a little more of yourself in The Unguided Woman.
It’s not a roadmap. It’s an honest conversation about perimenopause, identity, grief, and finding your footing again when life feels unfamiliar.
Download The Unguided Woman here.
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