In seven hours my daughter will finally graduate from high school.
Seven hours.
We're all going to be a little needy today.
Between now and then, I need to get her up (always a delightful experience). She needs to go to the stable to clean the trailer and tack she used at a big event yesterday (tremendous showing, she qualified for regional championships: happy girl, proud mama).
She needs to get home by 11:00 because I still need to touch up her manicure. She needs to be dressed and pressed — although the bright red gown can't actually be "pressed" because, apparently, it's made out of the material so enthusiastically recommended to Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate: "One word: plastics."
We all need to be at the high school by 1:00 so she can queue up for the processional and we can fight the other parents for the best seats in the gym.
(I'm serious. Don't mess with me. I'm from New York and I will hurt you.)
Last night, we spent more time than we expected covering her mortarboard in black rhinestones. Due to its aforementioned substrate ("One word: plastics."), the adhesive backing of the stones wouldn't ... well ... adhere. We tried "tacky glue" from the craft store and finally resorted to "liquid nails."
She isn't exactly thrilled with the result. But, she's done.
Those two words ... "She's done."
Twelve years of public school (not even including preschool, pre-kindergarten or kindergarten). 2,160 days of reading, writing and arithmetic. Countless hours of studying, papers, tests, field trips, science fairs and winter concerts.
And, somehow, in between all of that, she found the time to grow up from an adorable little thing in blonde pigtails, pink dresses and sparkly "Dorothy" shoes to the young woman who lives her own life, her own way, out of our house.
And today, she's done.
Why do they call graduation "Commencement" when it's really the end of something?
It's a common question, and the most common answer is that it also marks the beginning of something new. "Real life."
Going further back, though, its roots can be traced to the Latin word "commensa," which means a common table for all. Upon completion of their studies and graduation, students were invited to dine with their instructors at a table on a raised platform at one end of the long tables where the students sat. They were now full-fledged members of the university and welcomed as equals of their faculty.
My daughter has been a full-fledged member of our family since the day she arrived. We may have helped her along the way, but she was ever her own person — sometimes alien but always remarkable. I admire her bravery in the face of 1,200 pound horses and 120 pound mean girls. I admire her resilience and her determination; her street smarts and her silliness.
When I left for maternity leave so many moons ago, my boss's sweet wife asked me to express one thing I wished for my baby. Without a pause, I said "The capacity for joy." My wish came true; my daughter has a boundless capacity for joy.
But, what I maybe didn't expect was that she has increased my own capacity for joy too. Exponentially.
Thank you, Madison Ava.
And thank you, gentle readers, for joining me on the journey. "Happy Graduation."
Let the commencement commence.
With graduation less than a week away, I've been taking a lot of stock. (And Tylenol, actually; I've been taking a lot of Tylenol.) Eighteen and a half years of parenting behind me.
For the record, that's the longest I've ever stayed at any job.
What did I do particularly well? What did I screw up?
Becoming a mother is the greatest act of faith we can undertake. It can also be a huge slap in the face. It rocks our inner vision and is at once a source of great pride and the most humbling experience in the world.
My husband and I were a little late to the game and we had already watched most of our closest friends deal with transitioning from being happy-go-lucky "DINKs" (dual-income, no kids) to sleep-deprived, car-pooling zombies. We weren't ready yet, but we were very self-satisfied. If and when we were ever parents, we assured ourselves, we wouldn't make this or that mistake. We would never raise our voices. Or let our offspring walk all over us. We would do everything perfectly.
As my favorite classics professor Dr. Zarker would have remonstrated, "Hubris, hubris, hubris!"
Raised in the 1960s and 70s, I had a wonderful weekly example of perfect parenting: Carol and Mike Brady. Their six (count 'em, six) children were respectful and remarkably well-groomed. Their house was orderly; their dinners were on time.
And, Mr. and Mrs. Brady never lost their sh*t.
If there was ever an issue in the Brady household, they simply had a family meeting in that tiny little room off the kitchen. Crisis averted.
Last week, I insisted on a family meeting in our house. I was feeling stressed over our packed schedule of school events (white water rafting, graduation rehearsal, awards banquet and the big day itself), out of town visitors, horse shows, theatre tickets, work deadlines, business trips, and more. And, yes, I was ready to lose my sh*t.
Lest you think I'm just an anxious person (I am, but that's beside the point), let me give you a couple of examples ...
So far, I'd rescheduled my daughter's tuberculosis test three times. (No, she doesn't have tuberculosis. Well, I assume she doesn't have tuberculosis. But, she has to have the test for college.) I can practically hear the receptionist cringing every time I call the doctor's office.
Apparently, my daughter needs polypropylene long underwear for the rafting trip. This is not something I had on hand (or had time to run to the mall for), so we ended up using my sister-in-law's Amazon Prime account to get it here in two days.
We gave my husband a flying lesson for his recent birthday. But, finding a day when all three of us can take a few hours to drive up to New Hampshire and watch him fly a Cessna 172, take pictures (or, in my case, pray) was anything but clear skies.
Add to all this year-end activity the arrangements we still need to make to actually transport our little freshman and all her gear to her out-of-state university, and I think you can appreciate why I'm having trouble sleeping.
So, we had a family meeting, but it wasn't as peaceful or productive as the Bradys'. It required more than a little bullying on my part — before, during and after. We walked through the next nine weeks and took notes. I gave out some assignments (and ignored the eye-rolling).
And, for a full five minutes after the meeting, I actually felt better. Even if things still slip through the cracks — and they will — I can smugly say, "See? That's why I wanted to have a family meeting."
At this point, I'll take what I can get.
Thanks, Mr. and Mrs. Brady.
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
I will always remember my daughter's first day of pre-school (and not just because her grandmother has a "Kodak moment" permanently displayed on the refrigerator). It was fifteen and a half years ago. My daughter was wearing an adorable red dress, lacy ankle socks and mary janes, a fuzzy jacket with a big felt dachshund on it. She had a new lunchbox and a new backpack. She was very pleased with herself. And, I was really keeping it together.
Until I wasn't.
We went into her classroom with all the other parents and (really tiny) students. The teacher was warm and welcoming; the room filled with light, a reading area, a play kitchen, art supplies, lilliputian tables and chairs — and a row of cubbies and coat hooks with each child's name neatly printed and taped above.
That's when I lost it.
It was the first of many "reality checks." My daughter, this adorable little blond extension of myself, was going to school. Granted, homework and tests were still many years off. But, starting school, any sort of school, was a major milestone. My baby was growing up. She would someday, if not exactly soon, be grown up.
It didn't take much to make me weepy.
Fast forward to the final three weeks of senior year. Milestone reality checks are practically daily events at this point. Happily, I've become quite expert at holding back the tears. (Good thing. I mean, sheesh, I embarrass my daughter enough without welling up every twenty minutes.)
Nevertheless, I'm still reeling a bit.
Visiting colleges — last spring and this fall — may have been the start of it. But, those were planned events. There were tours to take, questions to ask. Big deals, certainly, but not the sudden, catch your breath, moments of truth I'm talking about.
For example, we went to Nordstrom Rack after an accepted student overnight in February. Halfway between "Designer Jeans" and "Outerwear," all 50% off btw, my daughter turned and casually mentioned "If I go there, I start six months from tomorrow."
Reality check!
It knocked the wind out of me.
After careful consideration, in about mid-April, my daughter committed to one of the schools that had accepted her. I sent them her registration deposit.
Reality check!
Then, more recently, they published next year's academic calendar. I wrote "Parents' Weekend" in my datebook, taking a few minutes to count just how many weeks there will be between that and "Drop Off For Freshman Orientation."
Reality check!
Now, Southwest has opened up reservations for November and December. I just booked my daughter's flights for Thanksgiving.
You guessed it. Reality check!
In that simple act (completed online in maybe four minutes), I ensured that (a) she'll have tickets home and back and (b) we locked in the best fares. But, there's so much more to it than that. Think about it. If my daughter needs (and now has) tickets to fly home for Thanksgiving, that means she is actually going to be leaving me and living on a college campus some 700 miles from here for 98 days leading up to said great American holiday.
Whoa.
At least, this Thanksgiving, I can count on having something to be thankful for.
And, I'm going to try, really hard, not to cry.
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
Last night, my teenage daughter spread her work out all over our dining room table so she could study. This is nothing new. But, it makes it a little difficult for her father and me to watch anything since our tiny family room is not only adjacent, but connected by a pass-through in the wall between.
This makes my husband frustrated, which is also nothing new.
I see his point. My daughter's bedroom is the largest one in the house, fully equipped with everything said young person might need. It has not one but two desks, arranged in an "L" to facilitate both homework and electronics usage. The surface of these desks is a lovely golden oak, but rarely visible thanks to piles of homework, textbooks, dressage tests, entry forms, concert tickets, photographs, catalogs and magazines. And there's the rub. Her desk might be more conducive to study if it weren't so conducive to every other thing. When she needs to clear her head, it's generally too late to clear the desk.
Consequently, the dining room becomes her study hall.
As I said, I do see my husband's point. But, I support my daughter anyway, because I think studying trumps pretty much anything we might choose to watch. Last night, it was Mr. Selfridge on PBS. We kept the volume down and when one of our pre-show predictions came to pass, we silently fist-bumped rather than exclaim satisfaction out loud. Our proximity meant that any requested study aids were procured in rapid haste. Apparently, AP Bio goes down a lot easier with chocolate chips and "Popcorners" and orange soda.
AP Bio, which she is taking for four hours this morning, is my daughter's last exam. Her final final, if you will. All of her courses except AP Bio finished nearly three weeks ago. When she gets home midday, she is done, done, done.
Wow.
Chances are, she will never again study on our dining room table. Her dorm room, most likely; the campus library, probably ... but not our dining room table. And, that table has seen some action.
I can't count how many posterboards, dioramas, science fair and art projects have been carefully constructed there. Some stand out, like her biography of George Washington, a presentation on gypsum (that would be alabaster to you and me), a shadow box of Paul Revere's ride, and a model of ancient Greece's Erechtheion, complete with statues of goddesses made by spraying toga-clad Barbie dolls with Rust-Oleum American Accents Stone Spray.
She and I read Romeo and Juliet together there for freshman Honors English, switching parts scene-by-scene. That same year, we read Homer's epic poem The Odyssey. Longer (and less fun) than R&J, it was nevertheless time well spent and certainly helped her score a better grade from a notoriously difficult teacher. So that was a happy ending all around.
For the past four years, my daughter has taken over the dining room for virtually every mid-term and final, a handful of APs, SAT and ACT prep, and even her college application essays. It kept her focused and reassured me that she was actually hitting whatever books she needed to hit without being too distracted by incoming texts. On many recent nights, we've headed up to bed while she and her work remained downstairs.
But, like so many other things, large and small, these days ... her late night sessions are over.
Now, and for the foreseeable future, we have our dining room back. We can "Whoop!" and high-five and watch TV as loud as we want. And, I won't wake up in the morning to a table cluttered with sticky notes — or sticky snacks.
And no matter how melancholy I may be about the changes we go through, I can console myself with the fact that my daughter is off on a wonderful new adventure. In fact, those afternoons and evenings (and even wee-hour-in-the-mornings) paid off handsomely.
And that's another happy ending all around.
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
Graduation is a mere seven weeks away. And, in case any of us have let that slip our minds, my daughter's school just issued a letter about it. A five-page letter. A five-page "refrigerator letter," so named because they are asking us to post it prominently in our homes. And, with a teenager in the house, what could be a more prominent position than ... you guessed it ... the refrigerator.
(After all, that's where the orange soda and chocolate chip cookie dough live.)
To the authors' credit, the letter did start out with a few words of congratulations: "with great anticipation of their bright futures." It then walked us through all of the senior activities scheduled for the coming weeks. From the mandatory (their underline, not mine) parents meeting, through the annual carnival, Senior Art Show, prom, white water rafting trip, up until the big day itself.
This is useful information and I will, indeed, post said letter (or, at the very least, tuck it into my desk planner). I appreciate knowing what's going on. Really, I do.
My issue is with the tone.
After those extremely succinct words of celebration, the letter quickly became a long list of all the terrible things our teenagers might do which would preclude their graduating along with their peers. Here, in no particular order, are just some of the potential (it truly feels like they're anticipated) crimes and misdemeanors:
• Not passing a course
• Not returning a library book
• Not paying senior dues
• Not serving detentions
• Not returning a sports uniform
• Not cleaning out a locker
• Not turning in the "Post-Graduation Plan" sheet
• Not settling up any cafeteria charges
That's a lot of "Not."
There are also things that students might not not do (in other words, do) that would result in graduation expulsion. These include:
• Being in possession of alcohol
• Being in possession of drugs
• Being in possession of tobacco ...
• Or of "related paraphernalia"
(All of the above get them kicked out of prom as well as kept away from graduation.)
Then, there are other mandatory get-togethers: graduation rehearsal ("all seniors must attend!") and a "mandatory safety procedure preparation meeting" for anyone going white water rafting.
And, finally, students are warned that "No flip-flops or sneakers will be allowed" at commencement itself. This particular outrage holds a less severe penalty. The offender will merely be sent home to change. (Phew!)
Oh, and don't get me started on the fact that they suggested that girls wear dresses or skirts.
What is this? 1961?
Nevertheless, I know that safety has to come first (or at least right after making sure you return your sports uniform and any library books). But, rather than talk quite so much about "setting up clear boundaries and meaningful consequences," I wish they would give our kids the benefit of the doubt. Yes, spell it all out, but maybe also acknowledge that our students have worked hard and — for the most part — behaved like responsible young adults thus far. I don't think words like "violation" really need to be used quite so much.
Then again, they did offer an idea for a mother-daughter activity. They pointed out that "Students should be able to say 'no thanks' if offered alcohol or drugs or tobacco." My daughter happened to be hanging out in my office when I read the letter, so I suggested we role play.
"Here, little girl," I sneered like the Wolf in Into the Woods, "Have some alcohol or drugs or tobacco."
Silence.
"You're supposed to say, 'No thank you,'" I prompted.
"No. Thank. You."
Well. My work here is done.
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
We are really in the home stretch now. My daughter's second quarter report card was released yesterday (she managed to keep her grades up despite a growing desire to be done with high school forever — or longer if that's possible). She has one more quarter of regular courses left, then ... Senior Project.
(With an AP Bio test squeezed in there somewhere.)
You may have noticed that I initial cap'd the words Senior and Project. That's because it is very much a proper noun. Senior Project. Senior Project. SENIOR PROJECT! It's something to aspire to, to revere, to regard with awe. Senior Project is a legend that you hear about when you start as a freshman. It offers fantastically adult promises — like open campus, no classes, and an internship.
The internship must be unpaid, but other than that, the field is fairly open. Some kids volunteer in hospitals or as teachers' aids. Some work in offices or libraries. You could build with habitat for humanity or work in a soup kitchen or community garden. My daughter will no doubt find (yet another) opportunity to work with horses.
For a while there, my daughter and her classmates thought the very existence of Senior Project might be in jeopardy. When she was a sophomore, a new principal came in and made seemingly countless, wide-reaching changes, eliminating many of the squishier bits of how the school had been run and adding rules, regulations, processes and procedures. Senior Project was in his cross-hairs for a while, and the underclassmen held their collective breath. Whether someone made a solid case for it (thank you, someone) or the principal ran out of steam or, perhaps more likely, he realized that the lunchroom is overcrowded and getting most of the seniors out of the building would be blessed cafeteria congestion relief ... who knows? The point is, here we are, Spring 2016.
And Senior Project is on!
The fact that one is a senior does not automatically guarantee that one may pursue a Senior Project. Mais non, mon ami. One must have a certain GPA, a limited number of absences, a spotless detention record. (Having earned detention is acceptable provided that said detention was actually fulfilled.)
And, even with the above criteria met, Senior Project is not a free-for-all six weeks of hooky. There are conditions and criteria. Each student must spend 40 hours a week (35, if they're still taking an AP class) at an approved internship under the supervision of an approved supervisor. He or she must secure a faculty mentor and check in with them on a regular basis. Participants have to keep a journal and then make a 5 or 10-minute presentation when the entire experience is over.
(After hearing all this at a Senior Project parents' meeting, I asked my daughter if it might not be easier to just stay and finish her courses. She looked at me like I had two heads and came from the planet Zot. It's a look she's quite good at; she's had years of practice.)
The paperwork is due this week. Another thing my daughter is very very good at is procrastination. (Of course, she has competition there. Every mom I know boasts the same of her daughter or son.) So, I have no doubt that all of her forms will be turned in on time. Just barely.
Stay tuned. Coming up next: Senior Project, Part 2 "Getting The Internship."
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
We survived Junior Prom, and learned some valuable lessons. For example, next year my teenage daughter plans to have her hair professionally done (hey, I did my best). We will start at Frugal Fannie's for the dress, not end there after a couple of expensive missteps. We'll order the flowers in advance.
It felt a little like my wedding twenty-ohmigod-three years ago. I was absolutely lost through the whole planning process. But, once it was over, I could have written a guidebook.
But, I digress. Back to Prom.
With all the rules surrounding Prom — and there were plenty of them — I was pleasantly surprised that not much was said about a dress code. And, when my husband and I attended the "red carpet" prior to bus-boarding and venue-arriving and Prom itself, we were very pleasantly surprised at the good taste demonstrated by most of our daughter's classmates. Oh sure, there was the occasional slit (here, there and everywhere). But, by and large, the dresses were age-appropriate, baring the right amount of skin.
We had seen the same girls and boys four years earlier as they left the upper middle school for the eighth grade Boston harbor cruise. It was billed as a "semi-formal" and many of the boys wore jackets and ties — some comfortably and some ... well ... not. Most of the girls wore short dresses. Really short dresses. Short short short dresses. Some were skintight and girls were struggling to pull them down before they even left school property. Add to this that at least half of the girls were (for the first time in many cases) wearing high heels. Really high heels. High high high heels. The entire class was a wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen.
The scene was the epitome of awkward. First of all, unless you're Brooke Shields, eighth grade hits in the middle of an awkward stage. The boys still looked like boys, while the girls looked like underage lingerie models. They were dressed and made up to look adult though. Very adult.
So fast forward to this year's big event. They all looked like grownups. And, as I said, despite a few instances of too much cleavage (back and side, as well as front), they were quite elegant.
Other schools across the country may have had less success keeping the kids in enough clothing. The news has covered a number of towns in which Prom-goers were informed of dress code rules a little too late. Some girls (not mine, obviously) buy their Prom dresses months and months in advance. If you're suddenly told that the strapless gown you paid $200 (or, in many cases, significantly more) for won't work, what are you supposed to do? And whether well-intentioned or not, the rules always revolve around girls and girly body parts, objectifying them as much as the offending garments did.
This week, a story broke about a school that sent what attempted (but failed) to be a humorous letter home, prescribing appropriate dress for another teen milestone: Graduation. The Upper Adams School in Bigliverville, PA, in its Proper Attire & Etiquette for Awards Program and Graduation, stipulated some general rules, like "No flip flops," "No chewing gum," "No sunglasses," as well as gender-specific ones:
Ladies: Choose modest attire. No bellies showing, keep "the girls" covered and
supported, and make sure that nothing is so small that all your bits and
pieces are hanging out. Please remember that as you select an outfit
for the awards assembly that we don't want to be looking at "sausage
rolls" as Mrs. Elliott calls them. As you get dressed remember that you
can't put 10 pounds of mud in a five-pound sack.
Okay, who is Mrs. Elliott and how dare she compare any girl to processed meat? (Way to add insult to injury for someone who is probably already feeling body shame.)
To be fair, boys were warned to "PULL YOUR PANTS UP!," but there was no mention of their "bits and pieces." As usual, it's the girl who is the focus of these rules and, consequently, the girl who must carry the responsibility for ensuring the morality of all.
When parents complained (and I guess they did, in great numbers), the school issued a quick mea culpa:
The Administration acknowledges that some individuals have found certain language in the document to be inappropriate or in poor taste. The document was drafted years ago, and the author of the original document has since retired. The document does not reflect the high standards of the Upper Adams School District, and the Administration will take appropriate action to address the issue.
Okay, but then they moonwalked just a little ...
While we regret that the document contained some unfortunate word choices, we do respect all students and hope this does not distract from the dignity of the graduation ceremony and the accomplishments of our graduating class.
Saying "While we reget such-and-such" is the same as saying "We're sorry, but ..." It kind of negates the power of the apology.
The sorry situation was a fairly minor and harmless event. But, I'm glad that parents protested. If we want our daughters to feel in control of their own bodies, rather than ashamed of them, we need to stay vigilant. Schools should respect and defend the rights of all students.
This includes boys and anyone with "girls."
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
My teenage daughter is an excellent student. We haven't seen all her grades yet (midterms were just last week), but she's on track to get high honors again. I can't complain about her report cards or her GPA. (She may tell you that I do; but I don't.)
Even so, my daughter's not in the top echelon at our very competitive school. Our little town has some super achievers (backed by bona fide tiger mothers). All Honors, multiple APs, science electives plus an extra language. (Why not Latin? That sounds fun.) It makes my head hurt. There's one boy who's slated to graduate (and may even be valedictorian) at fifteen.
Wow.
You do have to wonder, though, how someone, even someone who may be a legit rocket scientist, will handle the transition to college at that age. It's hard enough at eighteen.
Anyway, my point is not to brag (all right, all right, I'm a mother after all, I get to brag a little). What I'm trying to say is that high school — while time-consuming and inordinately stressful day-to-day — is not a crisis for us. I expect my daughter to do well. She may have the occasional hiccup (Freshman Honors English — ugh), but I am completely confident that she will graduate.
Many parents can't say that. And, now that my daughter's sixteen, I am often reminded that she doesn't "have to go" to school anymore.
Say what?
It's true. At sixteen, she is no longer mandated to attend. (Lawmakers here in Massachusetts are debating raising that age to eighteen as a handful of other states have already done.) Yikes.
Of course, if and when she ever mentions it, she does so with a mischievous gleam in her eye. She knows she's not dropping out. I know she's not dropping out. Nevertheless, it is yet another reminder (like I need another) of how grownup she is. Adulthood is coming on fast.
I think she'll listen to me for the next two years. But, but, but ... What if she doesn't? OMG.
That's why I'm so encouraged to find this (warning: it's graphic) public service announcement from Australia. (Okay, I warned you) In it, a group of students escape from their prep school as students everywhere are wont to do.
They jump over a hedge and into a van; they head to the beach. And who wouldn't? Sun, sand, bikinis on gleaming, gravity-defining bodies. Surfing, sipping sodas, making out in the dunes. It's like a dream come true.
Until it isn't.
You see, the point of the PSA is that if you leave school ... well ... terrible things will happen. Terrible things.
I don't mean terrible things like flipping burgers or stuffing bags at Wal-Mart. I mean really terrible things, stuff that nightmares are made of terrible, Quentin Tarantino terrible. It's a veritable bloodbath on the beach. (All that's missing is a Sharknado to make the carnage complete.)
And these hapless kids could be taking a History test instead. Who knew?
It's graphic, but it's important. We need to spread the word about these risks. Stay in school, guys.
Watch the PSA. More importantly ...
Make sure your teenager watches it. If nothing else, they'll think you're pretty cool.
'Tis the season.
No, not that one. 'Tis the season when proud mamas and papas post beaming photos of their offspring wearing caps and gowns and goofy grins.
Graduation.
I have mixed feelings about it.
This year, our family attended the college graduation of the son of my closest friend from my own college days. (Got all that?) Then, I attended a high school graduation party for another dear friend's son. And, my daughter, who rides her horse with girls slightly older, attended some ceremonies and parties as well.
We have seen the future. And, I have mixed feelings.
On the one hand, we sat through the long and, unfortunately, freezing cold (June in New England) ceremony a few weeks ago. I was so envious, I could hardly breathe. This wonderful young man, who I have known since birth (hey, technically, I hung out with him before he even arrived) is my friend's second of three to graduate from a prestigious school. As his sort-of-almost-aunt, I was honored to be part of the celebration; we were all so proud of him. But, I couldn't help but covet my girlfriend's position just a little. Not because of his accomplishments (which were great; he starts med school next month), but because he was safely through the system.
Heck, we're struggling to make it through freshman year in one piece! Finals and projects and essays ... oh my!
I felt the same way at the high school graduation party I attended a couple of weeks later. Here was another young man I had known all his life. In fact, in decorating for the party, his mom had put out dozens of snapshots, chronicling his childhood and high school years. One of the earliest was of his first Halloween when she and I made a Superbaby costume for him. The cape was a bright red hand towel with the familiar S logo applied in felt. Who knew he'd grow up so soon. Big and strong and handsome and brave enough to save the world — or, at least, Canada, where he'll be studying marine biology.
Both of my girlfriends could look at their sons and say to themselves: "I done good." I jump ahead three (and then four more) years, and I imagine what it will be like to see my daughter in her caps and gowns, and know that we got through it all together. Just thinking about it makes me teary. When the days finally arrive, I'll be a mess. Happy and proud, but a mess nonetheless. (Those two milestones, four years apart, can be my last chances to publicly humiliate my daughter.)
On the other hand, I look forward with dread. As much as I envy my friends' happiness right now, I pity them for what must surely feel like a huge loss. I know your baby is always your baby, but graduations are hard to argue with. Your baby is suddenly your grownup baby, and the passing of time is nothing if not bittersweet. Even if they come home again (as many do these days), it will never be the same.
Despite the late nights, the endless drama, the everyday aggravation that comes with mothering a teenage girl, I know I'm not ready to trade it in for a diploma and an empty nest. So not ready. It's hard to enjoy every minute when many of those minutes are filled with activity and stress (and sometimes, let's face it, downright angst). But graduation season reminds me that it all goes by way too fast.
So, "Congratulations, Graduates!" I knew you when. What wonderful accomplishments — yours and your parents'.
But, I think I'll enjoy my undergraduate for a few more years while I can.
Now, if we can just get through finals ...
The title of this post has nothing to do with George W. Bush. (Although I was one of the people very happy to say "Adios" to that particular W four years ago!) The W I'm referring to is the one between the T and the two E's in the word "Tween."
My daughter graduates from middle school tonight. I'm officially calling her a teen from now on.
Where does the time go? When I was on maternity leave, taking long walks with my precious little newborn all snug in her Snugli, mothers would come over to coo. "She's so sweeeeeeeeet." I agreed. "What an aaaaaaangel." I agreed.
"Enjoy it, they grow up so fast!"
I smiled and nodded, but I really didn't get it. Those days were long and lonely. She didn't sleep through the night. I was tired and sore; my breasts hurt and I had an inordinate number of stitches that needed to heal. Don't get me wrong, I worshiped her already, but time moved slowly and I was looking forward to her growing up at least a little.
If only. If only I could transport myself back for one day, one hour, one moment even. Hold her tight, gaze at that tiny face, smell her sweet head. These days, I'm lucky to get a half-hearted hug.
Thank goodness for photo albums. When I look at the often sullen, always beautiful teenager who lives in my house, it's difficult to picture the chubby-kneed toddler who used to twirl and collapse in a fit of giggles. When I see the confident young woman who jumps 3-foot fences at horse shows, it's hard to recall the terrified seven-year-old who competed in her first "lead line" competition. When I barely get a "hello" after school, it's almost impossible to remember the little girl who would run across a room and jump into my arms when I returned from a business trip.
I'm a passionately committed archivist; all of our pictures are in identical burgundy leather binders with the year and volume number stamped in gold on the spine. So many memories. Vacations, family gatherings, school trips, dance recitals. Gymnastics and swimming and archery and piano lessons (and all that money we paid — ugh). There she is on Christmas morning. Here's the first day of preschool. Swimming in the warm water in Bermuda or the frigid water of Maine. Dressed up for a bar mitzvah, dressed down with friends. Not dressed at all on a fur rug. Of course, I'm forbidden to show that one to anybody.
Dozens of my Lovin' the Alien posts talk about the frustrations that come with the territory when you're mothering a tween. But at least a few have expressed how proud I am of her. She is a good person with a good heart. She is smart and courageous and talented. Her room is a disaster area, but underneath all the clothes and magazines and stuffed animals and empty bowls and discarded hair accessories, there is a remarkable young woman who is no longer a tween. My daughter is a teenager.
Heaven help me.
Tonight, my husband and I will sit in the high school field house and watch our daughter and her classmates "move on." We're going to bring her a card and flowers. She gets to choose the restaurant we go to afterwards. Hopefully, she'll pose for some family photos. Hopefully, she won't be too embarrassed if I cry.
Hopefully, she'll let me hug her — at least a little.
