You know how you’re going about your life, and days turn into weeks, and suddenly you’re smack up against some milestone. Maybe it’s suddenly Christmas again, or an anniversary, or in this case, the last day of school. Another year has zoomed by. Again.
I was already feeling a little sentimental this week. Even as I celebrate all the new independent-child accomplishments of my children, who can now get breakfast, pack lunches, clean bathrooms, walk home from school — each of these accomplishments also take a little bittersweet piece of my heart. I’m excited that they’re able to navigate pockets of time without me, and wistfully despondent about it. Mostly the former. But definitely a little the latter.
This year on the last day of school, I dropped my children off at the same southeast corner of the school that we’ve been pulling up to all year. And it struck me all over again that at the beginning of the year, my youngest still wanted me to walk her to her classroom. By a few weeks into second grade, she didn’t need me next to her anymore. I didn’t know she’d feel so comfortable so quickly. While I felt a warm, reflective glow in her new independence — the work of any parent is to foster wings strong enough to leave the nest — and while I could get to work a few minutes earlier, I also grieved just a little. These “I’m good, Mom” moments should come with a countdown clock. Otherwise you stand beside your car thinking, Did I appreciate her still-small hand in mine yesterday? Did I notice how it felt to meet her teacher’s eyes, smile, and silently transfer over her welfare, or was I too busy thinking about email I had to answer once I got to work, and whether I’d checked to make sure the garage door was closed.
Next year my children will be in 3rd grade and 5th grade. 5th grade rocks me a little, maybe because for me it was the end of elementary school. Or maybe because it somehow sounds so much older than 4th. Because of my older daughter’s extraordinary Girl Scout troop, she’s already spent several multiple-night trips away from home. She’s always been a more collected, unruffled child. Flexible and mature. Somehow because she sometimes makes me feel frivolous and young, I haven’t felt as rattled to watch her grow up. It seems only natural that she’d grow into her old soul.
Today, the very first day of summer vacation, my youngest came back from our neighbor’s house, where she spends quite a bit of time playing with our neighbor’s granddaughter, nearly bouncing out of her flip-flops. Could she please, please, please go overnight in our neighbor’s camper to Cheyenne, Wyoming? Our neighbor came over and assured me that they’d love to have her come, that it would be fun for their granddaughter to have a friend along. And they were leaving in about 30 minutes. She just needed a change of clothes and a toothbrush.
I looked at the camper, the one that routinely blocks our otherwise unencumbered view of the mountains. And I thought about Wyoming, which is a couple hours away, and I looked at the terribly excited child in front of me, and I thought, No, no, no. No, you can’t go out of the state without me beside you. No, you can’t spend a night where I can’t get to you within five minutes. No, no, no.
And then I looked at Eva’s excited face again. And at our kindly neighbor and his very sweet granddaughter who will be Eva’s secret keeper in another few years. And I said, Let me just call her father to make sure we don’t have plans. …which was of course ridiculous and we all knew it. If there were plans for the evening, it would be my household role to both make them and know about them. But our neighbor smiled in understanding, and I called my husband to make sure that he couldn’t think of a reasonable explanation for why she couldn’t go. “I can’t think of any reason she shouldn’t,” he said.
No. Me either. Except that it will break my heart, just a little bit. Again. Except what if she needs me at midnight, and I can’t get there. Except what if the literal registered nurse who will be along, our neighbor’s wife, doesn’t know what to do if…. if…
And so I took a deep breath, and made her ridiculously happy by saying, Yes. Yes, you can go. Yes, you can test your wings. I’m just going to be over here doing some deep breathing. And panicked texting.
I hope she has fun. I hope that it starts her summer off in a way she’ll always remember — “that time, at the very last minute, when we went to Wyoming in a camper.”
And maybe I hope she misses me just a little bit. Not so much to dampen her excitement, but enough to sweeten her return home.