This roomy yet durable backpack is available in more than 70 prints and designs (including glow-in-the-dark space).
My husband and I work full-time, so our son attended daycare in a cozy home that featured a Stevie Wonder playlist every Friday. At first, we sent him with a diaper bag, but within a year, that quickly became worn; the inner lining separated from the sides, and the waterproof coating rubbed down to sheer fabric. We considered yet another tote, but being the frugal planner, I decided it was best to invest in a backpack. Preschool in our area starts at 2½, and we were a little less than a year away.
After some research, we selected what would one day become one of Wirecutter's picks for the best kids backpack (our decision was before Wirecutter even had such a guide), the Pottery Barn Kids Mackenzie Backpack. We liked the durable build, the age-appropriate sizing, and, as we'd learned the hard way about the ephemeral nature of Sharpie on a child's gear, the welcome option of embroidered personalization.
Our 1-year-old had been fascinated by space from the get-go, so we chose the solar-system pattern. It glowed in the dark, eliciting a gasp and a delighted "aah" the first time we presented the bag to its young bearer. It also led to a request for light-switch access. (Our electricity bill has never recovered.)
Although it was too big for the toddler to carry at first, by the time he started preschool, it had become a perfect fit. The largest pocket had a separate section with a Velcro closure, perfect for storing a change of clothes. The bag accommodated sunblock, a water bottle, wipes, a sun hat, a blanket, a matching lunch box, and an emotional-support stuffie. Through this era, it endured fingerpaints, dust, mud, sand, and the occasional sticky mystery goop that we prefer to assume was food-based. A quick wipe with a wet cloth, some gentle soap, a scrub with a soft toothbrush, and the bag looked good as new. The toddler became a little boy.
Without warning, elementary school swept in and took the boy with it. The bag still happily hauled a change of clothes, but now the larger pocket was filled with crayon boxes, worksheets, and glittery art projects. Like the boy, it looked a little different. The printed planets glowed fainter; the piping boasted rub marks on the corners. The lightly dust-tanned straps loosened to slide over a larger body; the outer loops sported some charms to reflect the interests of a kid exploring a new sense of self. But the water resistance held fast even during sprints to the car in sudden cloudbursts. The clips still clicked securely across the boy's chest; the outer pocket took on hand sanitizer, tissues, a mask, and headphones.
Into first, second, and third grade, the Mackenzie bag housed increasing burdens. A laptop, binder, and workbooks were squeezed in next to a sweatshirt, a lunch box, and a larger water bottle. The bag's zippers strained at the bulk and weight yet held fast; the teeth never separating behind the toggle, never breaking or bending after the boy stuffed one more thing on top and strained to pull it closed.
Even on summer breaks, the bag steadfastly accompanied the boy to camp, lugging towels, snacks, and a wet swimsuit to theme parks and the beach; across campus lawns and through unexpected sprinklers. Though the printed flair faded and the pockets discolored, the boy trusted the bag with his most prized tumbled rocks, his chess-champion ribbon, and his very first wallet which held his carefully saved allowance. The two were inseparable.
As third grade ended, we asked our son if it wasn't time to move to a new, larger bag. His needs and his shoe size had ballooned to the point where the aging bag simply lacked the space to meet the challenges before it. He refused. We tried to reason with him, saying that he could select a new pattern that matched his big-kid interests, like Minecraft or Lego. We spun a tale of a first day of school with a fresh bag that he could show his friends, as quirky and cool as he had become. He shook his head. "No. This bag is special," he said.
It was a week before the first day of fourth grade. Our son was nervous as he was about to attend a new elementary school. And then tragedy struck: The Special Bag—after nine long years—finally succumbed to its old age. An outer strap that secured his water bottle (which for two years was far too big for purpose-designed pockets) gave out. The nylon webbing simply fell apart at the seam where it was sewn into place.
Our 10-year-old's eyes filled with tears. We told him it was time. We didn't need to throw the bag out; it had earned its retirement. The boy thanked the bag for its service and unpacked his daily gear for the final time. We asked him what kind of bag he wanted next. "The same exact thing only bigger," he replied. Together we placed an order.
When this was over and my son—now so independent—finished his shower brushed his teeth and put himself to bed I cried. Every cliché about fleeting childhood is true. So few aspects of parenting are constant. When I calculated the bag's age and remembered the downy-soft hair of the baby it first supported I felt the deep ache that all humans who love children endure when they know their days of being needed are growing shorter.
I was not the bag but in that moment I developed an anthropomorphic kinship with it. The backpack had overcome and accomplished more than we ever could have anticipated in those early days. It carried its burdens well without complaint so tirelessly that it transcended from useful thing into beloved companion. It had been there every day witnessing chubby legs growing longer and stronger walking then running toward future.