This week, my two year old moved up to her new classroom.

My five year old started kindergarten.

And I started my last year of college.

It has been a week.

New classrooms. New teachers. New schedules. Syllabi. Backpacks. Bus rides. Work. Classes. An hour long commute.

And at least one morning of jumping out of bed because I didn’t hear my alarms and suddenly OH SHIT WE HAVE TO GO.

Welcome back to school, everybody.

The Littlest One Moved Up

My daughter moved up to her next classroom at daycare this week.

She’s done the classroom transition thing before, so this wasn’t our first time moving into a new room. But there’s still something weird about watching your youngest age up.

New classroom. New teachers. New routine.

Slightly bigger little people.

She’s still my baby.

She’s just very determined to continue getting bigger despite my objections.

And she’s my morning buddy because her daycare is actually on my college campus.

So while Daddy gets our kindergartner ready and onto the bus, she and I are already making our hour long drive to school together.

She is, however, NOT a morning person. So while I’m trying to wake up and mentally prepare for the day, she’s usually in the backseat giving me dirty looks like I’m personally responsible for the existence of mornings.

I drop her off at her classroom, and then I head to mine.

Which is honestly pretty convenient when your entire family decides to go back to school at the same time.

Somehow, We Have a Kindergartener

Meanwhile, back at home, Daddy handles the other half of the morning chaos.

My son started kindergarten this week.

Kindergarten.

Actual elementary school.

Daddy gets him ready and onto the bus in the mornings because by the time the bus comes around, I’m already on the road with his sister.

And there’s something very strange about knowing that while I’m driving to college, my five year old is climbing onto a school bus and heading off to start his own school day.

I know he’s five. I know this is what five year olds do.

Still feels fake.

I’m excited for him. I’m proud of him. I want him to make friends and learn and have experiences that are completely his own.

But motherhood is weird.

You spend years teaching them how to do things without you.

Then they start doing things without you and you’re like:

Okay, that’s enough of that.

And Mom Went Back to School Too

Then there’s me.

I started another semester of college this week.

Except this one feels a little different.

It’s my last year.

I have this semester.

Then spring.

And then I graduate.

Which is simultaneously exciting and a little hard to wrap my head around.

I’ve spent so much time thinking about everything I still have left to do that realizing I’m finally in the last stretch feels strange.

Of course, the last stretch isn’t exactly a leisurely victory lap.

My school is an hour from home, so my days start early. I drop my daughter off, go to class, work between classes, go back to class, and eventually make the hour long trip back home.

Then I get to do all the regular life stuff waiting for me there.

Dinner.

Kids.

Homework.

Laundry.

Getting everything ready so we can wake up and do it all over again.

Assuming, of course, I actually hear my alarm.

About That Alarm…

Nothing brings you back to reality during the first week of school quite like opening your eyes, looking at the time, and immediately realizing:

That is NOT the time I was supposed to wake up.

You know that moment.

There’s no slowly waking up.

No checking your phone.

No lying there contemplating whether you really need to get up yet.

Your body goes directly from unconscious to WE ARE LATE.

Suddenly you’re throwing clothes on, getting a toddler ready, grabbing everything you think you need, and flying out the door while mentally calculating exactly how much of your hour long drive you can make up without attracting the attention of law enforcement.

Nothing says I’ve got my life together quite like starting the semester by losing a fight with your alarm clock.

But we made it.

That’s what counts.

His First Year. My Last.

I think that’s the part of this week that keeps getting me.

My son is starting his first year of school.

I’m starting my last.

Obviously, we’re at two completely different points in our lives, but there’s something kind of special about both of us having such a big school year at the same time.

He’s just beginning.

I’m finally getting close to the finish line.

My daughter is moving forward too, settling into her next classroom and becoming a little more independent.

Everybody in this house is growing in some direction right now.

And maybe that’s why this week has felt like so much more than just another first week of school.

Welcome Back to the Chaos

Our new routine definitely isn’t running like a well oiled machine yet.

Some mornings will go smoothly.

Some mornings we’ll probably be looking for a missing shoe when we should’ve left five minutes ago.

And clearly, some morning I may wake up and immediately discover that the schedule has gone completely to hell before I’ve even gotten out of bed.

But we’re figuring it out.

Daddy gets one kid where he needs to go.

I take the other with me.

I go to class.

I work.

I go back to class.

Everybody eventually makes it home.

Then we reset and do it again.

It’s hectic.

It’s exhausting.

And right now, it’s our normal.

But this particular school year feels like one I’ll probably remember.

One kid moved up.

One started kindergarten.

And Mom started her last year of college.

Two semesters to go.

Assuming I can hear my damn alarm.

–Mise