Everyone said it would come quickly. One day, you’re holding your newborn in the hospital, in awe you’re completely responsible for another human being. Then—in the blink of an eye—this infant has grown into a young adult, and you’re in awe he’s, in large part, responsible for most of his own actions.
In two weeks, my son graduates from 5th grade. He will walk down the creaky wooden stairs of the elementary school he’s attended for the past six years and I’m wondering where the time went. I remember when introducing solid foods was the major decision of the moment. Now, I’m thinking about middle school and puberty and girls who will break his heart. He went from zero to pre-teen right in front of me. Blink.
How many times have I cupped his cheek in my hand and told him everything would be okay even when I was highly suspect if it would? I did this because I’m supposed to – it’s a mother’s job description to be a great actor. Still, I find myself ill prepared for the emotional confrontation with my children’s rites of passage. I just want to put life on hold a little longer, say, by about ten years or so.
I knew there would be some familial speed bumps along the way, but I underestimated the power of worry. My goodness, the worry! I could make a career out fretting over my children. Actually, I think I have. Are the children doing okay in school? What are their friends like? Are they studying enough? Are they playing enough? Are they sleeping enough? Are they eating enough? Am I worrying enough? The possibilities for parental anxiety are endless.
So, too, are the joys. There’s nothing like the first time your child understands the nuance of a joke – and still thinks his mother his funny. Or when the kids make mom and dad breakfast in bed with cereal, orange juice, and leftover fried chicken from the fridge. Sure, the Dave Mathews Band has replaced the bedtime lullaby cd. And Pooh Bear has taken a bow to the PlayStation. But we’ve kept our morning cuddles and nighttime kisses although I know it’s so uncool to say you cuddle with your parents when you’re a teenager.
After their bedtime each night, I check in on the kids and gently pry the book from the grasp of Gillian’s glitter polish fingers. She’s fallen asleep reading again. Griffin is sleeping…as he seems to be doing a lot now since hormones have kicked in. I see the covers pulled over an 11-year-old and think back to the time—which doesn’t seem like so long ago -when he had that sweaty baby look with the crumpled face and dimpled fingers. Now, his legs hang over the twin bed.
Yes, I know the adage about giving your children wings so they can fly, but no one really buys into that, do they? Maybe some do. Maybe I do, too. I just didn’t think it would happen in warp speed.
Griffin’s school has an end-of-the-year tradition for honoring the 5th grade graduates. Parents, teachers, and staff stand along the main hallway as the students walk through in a celebratory processional. I’ve warned Griffin that I’ll be the woman clinging to his leg, crying “Don’t go! Please! It’s too soon!” He just laughs, cups my cheek in his hand and tells me I’ll be okay.