The Most Honest Thing I Could Say About Back-to-School

Call me a punk, but I did the ’80s the first time around.

It’s back-to-school week, but I’m hell-bent on not writing a back-to-school article.

Maybe it’s because the embroidery on those Pottery Barn lunch boxes never really sat right with me. It always hit a nerve. A little entitled. A little too much. Like a soft-core emotional hijack for moms. Because yes, we all need to know whose lunch is whose – especially for kids on the spectrum. But doesn’t masking tape work? Not every parent has time, money, or margin to get three initials stitched onto a $48 allergy-safe sandwich holder. And yet… Guilty. (I bought the lunchbox x2.)

I’ve been in this game long enough. My twin boys are in middle school now. I remember trying to get into Mommy & Me with my red-cheeked kids, being told they needed to be “potty-ready” just to attend. We tried. One of them had SNL Chris Farley motivational speaker energy and hurled the bamboo diapers and BabyBjörn portable potty across the room like a flying saucer. We got kicked out before we were even really accepted.

Then came early intervention. Then two different drop-offs in two different schools. Then COVID. A full saga.

Lessons learned.

I see all the warm and fuzzy back-to-school posts this time of year, and honestly, they make you feel like you’re already behind before you even start. It makes me a little sick.

I remember being the kid who didn’t have those things. I remember my dad trying to piece it all together. Hand-me-downs from my sister. “Dad, can I play drums? The sticks won’t cost much.” “No. You’ll play the flute. Your sister has one.” Some office supplies and a legal pad from his office. Scrapping together a few pencils. Not every parent has the budget. Or the bandwidth. And for our family, that’s okay. We try to keep it simple.

This year, we re-wore last year’s uniform shirt. We ordered some “drippy” pants online. (Looser. More comfortable.) We got fresh haircuts from a barber who knows our sensory needs. We got hair products that didn’t sting but still gave some hold.

Because when you overdo it, you end up with five bags at the airport, throwing your back out, stuck in leggings and a Bluey t-shirt for three days, chiropractor on speed dial. True story.

We didn’t overstuff the backpacks with trapper keepers and emotional expectations.

This summer, we kept our circle small. We only spent time with people who supported where we’re going next. We made decisions in advance… what wasn’t serving us. What school days we were going to blow off. What travel mattered. What relationships were real.

I reflected on the times I overexerted myself for people who didn’t show up. In the early autism years. In Hollywood. And what I’ve learned? Less is more. More peace. More presence. More time with my kids. Not performing. Just being.

If you’re early in this journey, if you have a toddler and you’re navigating this diagnosis, find another autism parent. Or a surrogate grandparent. Someone a few steps ahead. Let them be your person.

You don’t need to be perfect.

Some days won’t work out. That’s okay. You can always order the shoes later.

The best compliment I got this summer was, “Mom, you’re like a retired WNBA player. You’re actually pretty good.” We were shooting hoops together, just me and my son, and I had just sunk a basket when he said it. But it wasn’t just about the game. It was after weeks of trying to make summer magic happen. And in that moment, his words landed like gold.

School will teach them things. But I’m here to help them become who they are.

They’ll learn math, spelling, science. But what they’ll carry is how they feel when they’re with you.

At home. On the road. In the space between.

We’re not just preparing them for school. We’re preparing them for life.

And misfits? We travel light.

Because while our kids are wired for greatness, you might just discover what you’re made of too.

If you slow down enough to listen.