WE DON’T NEED NO EDUCATION – Said No Mama Ever in August

Y’all. It’s August. Again.

And despite what Pink Floyd screamed into their mic in the ‘70s, we do need education. We need it bad. We need teachers and crayons and cafeterias and spelling tests and “Did you turn this in on Google Classroom or did you just think about turning it in?” discussions. And let’s be honest—we need a little structure after a summer of unstructured chaos that looked suspiciously like Lord of the Flies with popsicles.

Don’t get me wrong—I love summer. I love waking up when my body says, “Hey girl, it’s 7:45,” instead of a shrieking iPhone alarm announcing it’s time to quickly finish the last of the math problems that weren’t finished the night before because a meltdown was had, and then try to find the missing shoe that vanished overnight. But somewhere around mid-July, when the pantry’s down to beef jerky and pickle juice and everyone smells like chlorine and frustration, I start to feel it:

The itch for routine.

Now listen. Getting back into the school routine isn’t like riding a bike. It’s more like falling off the bike, rolling into a ditch, and then getting up and pretending you meant to do that. Because the transition from barefoot and feral to brushed and dressed is brutal. My child has forgotten how to wear socks. He will ask to be homeschooled ten times a day for the first month. I found a backpack with a sandwich from May in it. May y’all. May. I made John Michael promise that that little horror would not find its way to Big Mike. 

But as chaotic and painful as it is to turn the ship around, routine is also what saves us. God didn’t make us to float endlessly like pool noodles in the deep end. He made us for rhythm. For seasons. And yes, it is Ecclesiastes that says it:

“To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven:

A time to be born and a time to die,

A time to plant and a time to uproot,

A time to kill and a time to heal,

A time to weep and a time to laugh,

A time to mourn and a time to dance…”

— Ecclesiastes 3:1–4

And y’all, it is time to set those alarms, dust off those lunchboxes, and start dancing to the beat of the school bell once again.

Let’s not forget one of the few perks of this blessed season: football.

Friday night lights are calling our names like a four-year-old on the toilet. The bleachers, the marching band, the smell of nacho cheese in the air—that’s America, baby. And Saturdays? Saturdays are for SEC rivalries and screaming at TVs like your voice controls the score.

Football season reminds us that even as the world burns, there is still joy in gathering. In community. In yelling “ROLL TIDE!” or “GEAUX TIGERS!” or even “Bless their hearts, they tried” when your team loses in the last 4 seconds.

Because let’s be honest, mamas: it’s getting hard out there.

We’re sending our children into a world where kids are dying of hunger in Gaza, where teenage boys are walking the streets of New York with AR-15s, where flooding has stolen towns and babies, and where school budgets are sliced thinner than gas station deli meat.

There are moments—real moments—when I think about snatching my babies up and heading off-grid. But that’s not why God gave us these children. And that’s not what He made us for.

He didn’t give us this generation of mothers so we could hide. He made us brave—even when we don’t feel it.

WE ARE WARRIORS IN CUTE EARRINGS

Some mornings, the woman staring back at me has yesterday’s mascara and the spiritual exhaustion of someone who’s read too many tragic headlines. But underneath? A warrior. With dry shampoo, iced coffee, and a prayer life that sounds like “Jesus, please just handle it today.”

And He does. Sometimes in big miracles. Sometimes in tiny mercies—like the teacher who truly sees your child or the friend who texts “You’re not crazy. It is harder than it used to be.”

THE GREAT HOLIDAY COUNTDOWN (YES, ALREADY)

School calendars bring focus: fall break, Thanksgiving, hot glue nightmares from class parties, the smell of cinnamon, and construction paper. We need these markers. We need to know there’s celebration ahead, even if it’s just a Tuesday with no homework.

THE SOUTHERN HEAT AND THE HOLY GHOST

It’s hotter than the devil’s armpit right now. It’s so hot I saw a squirrel fanning itself under a magnolia tree with a Chick-fil-A napkin. It’s so hot my thighs tried to file for divorce.

But this, too, shall pass. Eventually. Maybe by November.

A PRAYER FOR THIS NEW SEASON

My prayer for your family—and mine—is simple:

• That we see the good.

• Count small blessings as big ones.

• Be brave even when the world feels unsafe.

• Raise kind, strong, Jesus-loving kids.

• Never let evil overshadow beauty.

I pray for teachers, school staff, and grace-filled mornings. No matter how chaotic things feel, know this truth:

God created this season. He’s walking every step with you.

SO, LET’S DO THIS, MAMAS

Let’s slap on sunscreen, sharpen pencils, Febreze uniforms, and put one foot in front of the other.

Let’s laugh. Let’s cry. Let’s say inappropriate things under our breath in the carpool and immediately ask forgiveness.

Because we’re not just sending kids to school.

We’re sending light into a dark world.

We’re sending hope in tiny tennis shoes.

We’re sending our hearts onto a battlefield with a backpack and a granola bar.

And God’s going with them.

Amen and pass the coffee.

Thank you for your time. It is valuable, and I truly appreciate you sharing it with me. 

Be kind. Be strong. Be brave. And, let everything you do be done in love.