Back in 1986 8th grade graduation was a big deal. Big. Deal. I had a dress made for the occasion. Classmates had limos. Flowers. Crazy. I just remember seeing my fellow students dressed up, family came (even my grandma), and I’m pretty sure we got out early. I also remember the let-down of having no other plans afterward, so I joined my dad on his newspaper route that afternoon, riding around town sitting on the engine in his old brown van.
Fast forward to 2019. I didn’t have a clue what my life would turn out like, let alone imagine I’d ever have a 14-year-old daughter. It just wasn’t anywhere on my radar. And here we are, with our fifth kid leaving middle school, our last. Which isn’t that momentous. Except that it marks another transition for our family.
No more family breakfasts like the ones we’ve always had. Todd and I have eaten breakfast together and with the kids for the past 25 years. We’re not the kind of family to fend for ourselves in the mornings; we sit at the table together with our toast and grapefruits and cereals and little spiritual message every school day. Bronwyn’s been sticking it out with us on her own this past year, but I know she’s looking forward to leaving the awkward mornings behind. Even if it means she’ll have to leave before 6:30.
No more school lunch bargaining. In fact, we still have $50 left in the school lunch account. It used to be a major item on the daily agenda: check the school lunch calendar and choose wisely, but only two a week. Sometimes they’d opt for three one week and one the next. Bronwyn refuses to eat any of it anymore. Which is why we have leftover money to just throw away. Good grief.
No more early outs on Wednesdays. Or early student council meetings. No more sitting on the lawn in September and May when the afternoons are lovely just talking with my friends while we wait for the kids and while their littles play on the equipment. No more taking naps or reading my book in the school parking lot because I got there a little early. No more braving the afternoon weather in the winter. Or taking extra friends home and listening to them chatter.
No more track practices in the next town over. Or volleyball. No more packing Wheat Thins and pumpkin muffins and and oranges and energy balls for all the hungry girls.
No more PTO meetings. Or making cotton candy or laminating signs or serving cake and apple juice after kindergarten graduation. Or setting up for the carnival or teacher appreciation lunches or Saturday Live. No more collecting box tops or passing out coffees. No more decorating for concerts or graduations or grandparent lunches. Totally fine to pass the torch on to other moms, just sort of weird to switch gears after so many years of being a part of it.
No more making copies or reading in small groups or cutting out construction paper pieces for young and busy teachers.
No more Christmas concerts. Or handmade colorful cards for Mother’s Day. No more artwork to hang on the fridge.
No more coordinating two different school calendars. And having kids home and at school on different days.
No more meetings about bonds and school growth.
I can delete her school in my contacts. I can donate her Spirit Wear. How strange.
But as I sort through the memories, I choose to keep most all of them. I’ll leave the ones of jammed copiers, late nights counting tickets after the carnival, accidentally laminating a sticky note in the book cover, feeling like a witch with cotton candy in my hair, and working the Saturday Live games in the park in the freezing cold. Not exactly bad, any of them. Just that there have so many others I’d rather have out front. Parent-teacher conferences with women I adore and who feel like friends. Their personal attention to and knowledge of how my children are doing. Music teachers who still choose traditional Christmas songs and make the kids dress up. Hearing the pledge and My Country Tis of Thee and smelling rolls and cookies that the cafeteria workers make from scratch as I walk down the hall to the library on Wednesday mornings. Becoming dear friends with fellow parents as we work side by side slicing muffins and fruit and setting up the book fairs. Having kids call me teacher and asking for book recommendations and giving me hugs. They don’t know I’m not for real, but I like it.
And like every sorrowful ending, there is an equally choice beginning. I could never see a way out from the piles and jumbles of my earlier life as a mom. When the five were young and all in their early grades, I simply couldn’t see past the todays. I thought I would forever be overwhelmed, exhausted, and in chaos. I didn’t see how I could ever keep the house clean or how I could make a difference when we were just fighting to make it to school on time and find their backpacks and shoes that matched.
But this is good. It’s just an obvious time to reflect on the past 12 years we’ve had kids at this school. I’ve loved all the parts, every single stage; but I love life with my older kids so much. I’m in my happy place even as I let some of the parts I loved about life with littles sift through my fingers like the sands of time.
And so, as we continue to watch Baby B grow into a beautiful version of herself, I’m grateful. For all those who nurtured and encouraged her. Who let her be herself. Who said nice things about her to me so I could notice attributes I hadn’t really before and reinforce them at home. Who appreciated her non-dramatic ways and who enriched her educational experiences by letting her work with a variety of personalities. I’m so thankful for the time these exceptional teachers spent on lessons, on explaining, on grading, on counseling, on inspiring, on encouraging. I know you all have your personal lives, families, and so many other responsibilities, but I hope you realize how much you’ve impacted our family for good.
You have been our extended family. For real. I am only one mom, with so much still to learn. We don’t have blood relatives for hundreds of miles. And so I’ve relied on you to be aunts and uncles, big sisters and brothers, to our kids over the years. You’ve held them close to your hearts, you’ve cared and been patient and kind. You’ve gone beyond what’s expected and have created relationships and memories and habits and passions for learning that will serve them their entire lives. The only way I can think of to begin to thank you is to carry on your legacy as best we can as parents and to keep the momentum going. You’ve given them a solid start and I can’t thank you enough as we celebrate both an ending and a beginning. Love to you all.
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