When Ready and Not Ready Live in the Same House
On first days, morning quiet, and holding joy against heartbreak
There's a particular quality to the morning quiet after drop-off. Different from weekend mornings or summer days. This quiet holds both absence and presence — my almost-one-year-old exploring the world at his own pace, and Figgy, who has claimed the playroom as her kingdom.
I keep catching myself listening for sounds that aren't there. Blocks clicking together, songs hummed under her breath, the particular rustle of a child rearranging her world to make sense.
The coffee stays hot longer now. Thoughts finish themselves without interruption. There's something beautiful about the one-on-one time with my baby, especially during that first nap when we can do as we please. A luxury I'd forgotten existed, alongside the hollowness I wasn't prepared for.
School started two days ago, and we're all still learning what that means.
We planned the morning carefully, like we were trying to avoid disaster. Waking before the children felt wrong — our bodies used to being summoned by small voices, not alarm clocks. As the sun came up, I made strawberry chocolate chip pancakes and cut extra strawberries while my wife handled the morning routine.
My daughter had chosen her outfit the night before: a dress with bugs on it, a rainbow headband, and her favorite red shoes. When she saw the pancakes with their generous dollop of whipped cream, her face lit up in a way that made the early wake-up worth it.
I packed her lunch with more care than usual — cucumbers, pizza bites, grapes, and chocolate chips tucked in like small promises that good things exist even in new places. Each item chosen with the privilege of choice, of abundance, of a tomorrow that feels guaranteed in ways that aren't guaranteed everywhere.
The first-day photo happened: a small person with a backpack that looks too big, red shoes on familiar ground before stepping into something completely unknown.
We went as a family, each carrying our own version of nervousness and hope. The drop-off line was its own small chaos — cars and kids and parents all figuring out the unspoken rules in real time. We got there early, which was smart because parking was complicated.
We walked her to her classroom, a walk that felt both too long and too short. At the doorway, we said our goodbyes — hugs and "see you laters" and all the small rituals of letting go. Then she walked in alone, ready to figure out whatever came next.
We sat in the parking lot for five minutes afterward, not sure whether to cry or celebrate.
After school, she was excited to pick up the grandparents from the airport, like the day had been planned to give her this perfect ending.
We've been talking about her days through the senses, and she's happy to answer most questions, though I'm still trying to piece together what her day actually looks like. She mentions some classmates, tells me about activities, but I can't help feeling protective over her in this new space.
I want to ask about circle time and snack sharing. I want to hear every detail about her expanding world. But I keep thinking about mothers somewhere else, piecing together fragments of their children's last days instead.
The strangest part of these first few days isn't the logistics — though there are plenty of those. It's the way time feels different now. Structured in ways that aren't mine. My daughter's day is being shaped by bells and schedules and a teacher who seems to bring a feelings-oriented, bubbly energy that I'm still trying to understand. She's having her own experiences now — ones I'm not part of. Meeting people I don't know, learning things that have nothing to do with me.
She's becoming a person who has circle time. Who knows which bathroom to use and where to sit for lunch. This version of her — school-age, independent, confident in spaces that don't include me — is emerging so fast I can barely keep track. I celebrate her growing independence while knowing children her age will never get to grow up at all.
Earlier this week I wrote about getting ready by living forward, about preparation happening through ordinary moments rather than grand plans. This week I'm learning that the same might be true for letting go. It's happening in small moments — the casual goodbye at drop-off, the way she knows her classroom number, the stories she tells at dinner about a world I'm not part of.
Not dramatic or ceremonial. Just gradual. Just real life doing what real life does: changing us whether we feel ready or not.
What I'm... This Week
🎬 Watching: Love Is Blind (season 6), because apparently I needed chaos that isn’t my own.
📚 Reading: The constant stream of school-wide notifications that arrive throughout the day, trying to decode the subtle language of elementary school bureaucracy (though I'd love if some came directly from her teacher about her specifically). Also starting through Creativity, Inc. — will let you know my thoughts on it.
🍽️ Making: Italian meatballs, still chasing the perfect taste. The next experiment: more salt and food processing the onions.
🛒 Buying: A second water bottle, because it’s somehow easier than washing the first one every night.
🎧 Listening to: Why Not by Hilary Duff, because sometimes you need to regress in the safest way possible.
Figgy has adapted to our new schedule, appointing herself guardian of the morning routine. She's found her place in the rhythms of a house that now moves to school bells instead of our own internal clocks.
Ready and not ready are learning to live in the same house. Some days that feels impossible. Most days it feels exactly right.
Maybe that's what this whole thing is — learning that you can be proud and terrified at the same time. Grateful and grieving in the same breath. Maybe that's just what love looks like when it meets the world as it actually is.
Ready and not ready, proud and terrified, grateful and grieving. Maybe that's just what love looks like. Both things are always true.
If you're in this phase too — or remembering it — I'd love to hear how ready and not ready are living in your house these days.