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Senior Year
The first day of the last year. That’s what I kept thinking on August 25 when my seventeen-year-old son started school as a senior. It was unexpectedly bittersweet.
I kept thinking back to the first day of the first year—that milestone that as parents we remember forever. I can picture him as clearly as can be, with his Big Bird backpack, plaid shorts, and little boy polo, wearing a dimpled smile nearly as broad as his face was wide. He wanted a new backpack this year, too, but the calculator, mechanical pencils, and college-ruled paper were a far cry from the crayons and box of Kleenex we had taken twelve years ago. This year I dropped off an “almost man,” at the edge of the high school parking lot, not the little boy I had left in a stranger’s care in a room called “Kindergarten.” And like that day so long ago—yet almost like yesterday—time stood still for just a moment as I watched him get out of the driver's seat and stride into the building. Another milestone. Another memory that I will never, ever forget.
I will be thrilled when he graduates from high school this next spring, and yet….I keep thinking about how fast it seems like it’s gone; how I’d do it again a million times over, but never at the risk of giving up exactly where we are right now—who he is right now—the incredible, joyful, nearly-grown guy that I am so proud to call my son.
It’s a very sentimental time. We picked up the proofs of my son’s senior pictures this week. We’ll be ordering graduation announcements and invitations soon, and I can only imagine the hours it will take sorting through the boxes of photos we have. (I hear some folks start in grade school.) It will be quite a spring. And the culmination—after graduation itself—will be our Civic Center performance. I’m a seasoned pro in working with our graduating seniors as they carve out their signature dances—the performances they want to be remembered for, the ones that represent everything they’ve learned and become before they “cross over” to the world of adulthood.
But this year, for the first time, I’ll be wearing my mommy hat, too, and it’s blindsided me. Like never before, I get it. Parents camping out overnight to get a prime spot on the seating chart; families watching every minute of every rehearsal and performance; dancers with tears streaming from their eyes as the finale builds and the inevitable moment comes when the curtain descends on Saturday night. It all lies before me as the clock ticks and the calendar stares back at me.
One final year as an official "Dance Magic Mom"—and, like the hundreds of parents I've watched throughout the years, I’m going to soak up every single second.
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