This past Sunday was my baby
girl’s high school graduation. Chaos reigned last week as we worked on tidying
up the house (calling the HazMat team, alerting the neighborhood to ignore
tumbleweed size chunks of animal fur rolling past), preparing meals and shopping
last minute (is there any other kind of shopping?).
With much anticipation and
excitement we awaited the arrival of OK and The Boy Friday evening. Because of
the timing of baccalaureate we weren’t home when they were due to arrive. We
did, however, provide them with a car parked at the bus station to travel by –
along with directions. Hey, it had been a while and I didn’t want them jumping
on the highway the wrong way and winding up in North Wingpit.
While I admit it would have
been fun to greet them with a big “Welcome back” sign at the bus station, it
was especially sweet to arrive home and find them here for the first time in a
year and a half, when OK had hopped on a Philly-bound bus to be with her true
love. The weekend’s conversation swirled with familiar laughter as we relished just being together
again.
Of course, before that OK had
to send me into mild hysteria at the beginning of their trip last Friday. Feigning
illness and a late start to the bus stop via text (I understand this was at The
Boy’s suggestion – he has much to learn), at 10:07 a.m. she alerted me that
they were “almost at the bus station.” The bus was scheduled to leave at 10:15.
Not a good sign. A few minutes later her text announced, “Ummm… I think we just
missed the bus.”
I’m not sure what part of her
thought I would laugh heartily at this prank when I found out that they were
really on the bus and had been at the station for close to an hour ahead of departure. Apparently her father’s warped sense of humor reigned at the time
– before she found out that I was sitting at my desk in tears, my
computer screen immediately filled with information on bus, train and flight schedules (yes, flight.... S was only slightly amused by that part) to get them here by Friday evening. Note to children in
general: Do not… hold on -
not enough emphasis.
DO NOT EVER attempt to joke
about missing an important event with a mother who:
#1 has not been able to watch
any commercials displaying the slightest parent/child sentiment without melting
into tears for the last three months;
#2 has been pouring over baby
pictures since September to capture just the right one for A) the yearbook, B)
the senior photo slide show, C) social media to use on “The Day.”
#3 has not been able to have a
conversation with any other mom of a graduating senior without seemingly
gasping for air in order to not bust out in tears.
More than just Mommy being
Mommy
I’m going to slip back in time
a bit here to get the full effect of what this whole weekend meant to me
personally. Five years ago I had just gone into remission after a battle with
Leukemia (AML - the "best" - i.e., most curable - kind of Leukemia to have, we were told in the beginning). The diagnosis threw all of us into a complete tailspin, but the fight itself to recovery was shockingly arduous and terrifying, even
more so for my family than me, since I was not conscious or particularly alert
through a chunk of the time I was receiving treatment. It is obvious that I am far
from the only parent with real fears, especially based on this type of health scare, of not being there for her children on
their most important days. It is what every parent fears no matter what that
child’s age. What I did find as time went by is that a bond has since formed through just a look, a nod, a hug, when I
come across others who have faced similar situations. We crammed into shiny bleachers with other parents who had similar experiences and were now squirming in close to 90 degree weather (with a touch of cyclone thrown in, deceptively convincing some students and attendees there was no need for sunblock), searching across a newly turfed football field hoping to distinguish their child from the other maroon and gold caps and gowns. Thankful to be here for
this day? That doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface of the emotion
cascading through me.
In a New York Minute – no matter where you live
On Sunday we slathered
ourselves with SPF-50, listened to speeches (ranging from meaningful to… not so
much), discovered who received scholarships (including YK – yay!), and
generally tried not to kick the person sitting on the bleachers in front of us.
Then my baby walked across the new turf of the football field along with 366 of her
classmates and received her high school diploma, graduating magna cum laude. To
say it was an emotional moment sounds so cliché. The whole week had been one of
blurred vision (especially through the senior song, which I heard at no less
than five events, and teared up every time), nearly tangible excitement for “The Day,” and a small sense of dread
because I know the next step is dropping her off at a college eight hours away
in August.
Commencement is followed by a
tradition at this high school – the hug line. In the shape of what looks like a
giant centipede, maroon and gold caps and gowns hug for what will be the last
time (and actually, in most cases, first) in a final congratulations to each other. It is fun to watch and of course it
got to me, but it was also a bit comical witnessing how YK had different versions of
‘hug.' There was the full on hug, reserved for good friends and even the kids
she didn’t hang out with but knew to be likeable. Then there was the touch on
both shoulders in a sort of “how’re ya doin’” motion for the ones she knew of and may have shared a class with. Finally, there was the single arm hug that she swiftly slung over and removed
in one quick motion, not so much in disdain as “Oh yeah, you are so off my Facebook by tomorrow.” She had
all the bases covered.
Funny how in one minute
everything changed.
About a half hour after
ceremonies ended I was driving by the now deserted high school to the store to
pick up a cake I had ordered. Passing the front entrance, I felt an odd
emptiness, and something that felt a bit like panic. YK would no longer have any
reason to enter these gates, to walk through the halls or step into a
classroom. This was no longer her world, and I suddenly realized it was no
longer mine either. Yes, we might go back during concerts and plays, but it
will never be quite the same again. This was a strange rush of melancholy I was
unprepared for.
There has been more going on
than just a graduation here this past week. OK
and The Boy chose to incorporate a few visits to wedding venues into their
trip. This was a first for them – and for me. Not that I went with them. That
would be obnoxious and unnecessary. And they didn’t ask me (very smart). Still,
the idea that someone was talking to them about a ceremony and a guest list and
all those “firsts” definitely triggered some butterflies even for me. A couple
of times I did offer (hopefully in a non-mother-in-law-to-be way) suggestions about how
they might want to go about their search, and S and I let them know we want to
help them as much as possible once they establish what they want. And where
they want to have it. And when.
Now I get it
When I was just two weeks away
from my own wedding (lo, those many years ago), my mom went to a hairdresser to
have her hair cut and colored. In my mind to this day is a strong picture of my
mother standing in front of her mirror at home afterward with tears streaming
down her face because she hated the cut and the color was darker than she had wanted. Funny, I remember thinking how she looked so glamorous on my wedding day.. but at that moment she was inconsolable. It was all wrong.
The morning of YK’s graduation,
OK and I ran to the dollar store (where all wise parents shop for celebrations)
to get the balloons I had pre-ordered (fine - the day before - but at least I did it) so
we could get home and tie them to the mailbox while YK was in one of her
marathon showers. The minute the clerk handed them to me I realized the colors I had chosen were
haphazard at best, a weird mixture of orange Mylar with "Congratulations Grad" (it is one of her new school colors),
yellow, white, blue and red, I believe. I don’t know what I was thinking when I
ordered them, but as we shoved them into the car I was thinking, “What was I thinking???” I knew
OK wouldn’t say a negative word about them (even though I was sure she was
very curious about my choices) and that YK would be just plain happy to see
congratulatory balloons in front of her house. But I knew it was all wrong.
There was additional irony in the fact that the Mylar balloon with
“Congratulations Grad” – in the only color that made sense - was literally ripped
off by the wind while we were at the ceremony.
Between graduation and dinner I
ran to pick up the cake I had ordered. At least this couldn’t go wrong, I
thought. The colors were to be maroon, gold and orange for trimming – a
combination of maroon and gold for her high school, and maroon and orange for
the college she will be attending. I had it covered! When the bakery clerk
brought over the cake I was sure my face dropped. The message had been
written in yellow (it had looked much closer to gold on the other cakes I had seen). Yellow? Really? They didn’t ask me
what color I wanted the writing in? They couldn’t have figured that the orange
or maroon would have shown up better? Just so wrong.
I'll bet you're catching on about now, and so am I. It
wasn’t about the color or cut of my mom’s hair. It had little to do with my
choice of balloons or the writing on the cake. It was – and is - about knowing
change is inevitable, ready or not.
Play it Again, Mom
I can easily replay in my head
the dozens of times their dad and I held our children’s hands and ‘flew’ them
over a puddle. Colorful scenes of kite flying on the beach, searching for
falling stars at night in the backyard, our crazy after-Christmas gingerbread
houses, even the alphabet game on road trips (which we still do, but I know in
my heart, that is about to end… probably on our way to PA in August) compose a
revolving panorama through my mind these days. There is a genuine heaviness in
keeping from tearing up on days when I’m driving down the road thinking of
nothing, and find myself unexpectedly reliving a day in the life of parenthood.
Change is exciting. S and I are
going on a date Friday night. He made plans for us that will be a surprise to
me. The fact that he made plans is enough of a surprise, but as long as I know
the dress code I’m game for whatever he’s got rolled up his sleeve. There has
been no reason for us not to go on dates more often. YK is 18,
and has been striking a chord toward independence since birth, so she cheers us
on when we have ‘couples’ plans, happy to have control of the TV remote. I just
have not been very interested in being gone for any length of time whenever one
of my kids has been here, though I wouldn't say we've been hermits either. But knowing
very soon it will be “just us” I can honestly say I am ready to ‘go out’ – with
my husband.
Change is unnerving. By
summer’s end my children will be a minimum of seven hours away from me.
Philadelphia is not the world’s safest city, though OK is in a pretty decent
area. YK’s college is an hour from the Harrisburg bus station - which I have
been warned isn’t the greatest area – and at that point she will still have a
haul to see her sister. We will have to celebrate YK’s birthday a week late
when we go to Family Weekend. I don’t even know what’s going to happen with
Thanksgiving (other than that I will not be fit to live with if I’m not with at
least one kid). I’m scared, plain and simple, to be that far from both of
my girls. But they are both so happy with their choices that I know in my heart
we will figure it out, and it will be all right.
Change is inevitable. The beauty of that is in choosing to
be truly grateful that we’re along for the ride. At 50-don’t-ask years old I
know I am still changing, evolving, recreating who I am and where I’m going.
Life is all about facing - or fighting - change. We are each trying to defy
gravity in our own way. So as inevitable and sometimes heartbreaking as change
is, the supressed rebel in me is does enjoy seeing the adventuresome (and
somewhat impulsive) side of my offspring being unleashed. Don’t be fooled,
though, by these declarations. It was still bittersweet to hear about OK's conversation with a co-worker about coming to Maine where she referred to this as “my
parents’ home” instead of just “home.”
I don’t try to picture OK in
her wedding dress - partially because my spaghetti brain goes from wedding
dress to location to family visiting to people walking into my house to We Have
to Get New Kitchen Cabinets Before The Wedding (yes, that is the typical road
my mind travels). My mind won’t wander (yet) to the day we drop YK off on her
home away from home for the next four years. This is partially
self-preservation, knowing if I focus on that day too soon it will be a very
difficult two and a half months. I also believe YK is over the top excited but
also a tad nervous about being so far from home. This is the kid that zeroed in
on finding her family after the graduation hug line, leading to a small admonishment
from classmates who had tried to find her for photo ops. It’s some comfort to
know she’s not packing just yet and that every time she says (with a touch of
sauciness), “You’ll miss me” she is also saying “I’ll miss you, too” in a
healthy, completely secure way.
Where Do We Go From Here?
It’s hard to know how to end a
blog about a story that’s just beginning. So I will end it with two pictures,
one for an ending of sorts, one for a beginning.
The night before OK and The Boy boarded the bus back home we
came together for a bonfire in our beautiful backyard fire pit (constructed
with great care by S). I won’t say this is the last time we will sit together
and admire the dancing flames (and try to keep our almost blind dog’s tail out
of them) as a family, but it is very likely the last one we will have as this family in this way.
Orange is one of the school colors of YK’s college. You
don’t often see it in a rose, so naturally we had to have it for her at
graduation (thank you, vendor under the bleachers). Whether the significance
struck her the same way is still up for debate, but I can tell you the weight
of its meaning went straight to my heart.
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