By Ann

Thirteen years. Or is it fifteen? How should I count them off? I think fifteen is more accurate. I should include his two preschool years. There have been fifteen First Days. Fifteen Meet-the-Teacher nights. Fifteen Picture Days. Fifteen years of women and men acting “in loco parentis” during the school day. And soon, we will count off our fifteenth Last Day of School. For my son, it can’t come soon enough. From his perspective, this was the longest year of his life. Once he took the SATs last year, and chose his college this year, he was ready, excited, to move on from his senior year of high school. He’s enjoyed his classes and his friends, but he’s “seen the light at the end of the tunnel,” and what he sees is more freedom and responsibility, less adult interference in his own life. He is ready to make his own decisions, set his own schedule, and figure out how he will contribute to society. Me? Not so much.

Where has the time gone? I can still see the little postcard Mrs. Shanton, the preschool teacher mailed him before school started to welcome him and say she was looking forward to seeing him in her class. I remember his first school craft, a little lamb cut-out covered with cotton balls. I see him sitting in time-out for laughing too hard when he and a pile of little boys bumped into each other and fell over (poor Mrs. Shanton.) For years his class visited the same little farm to pick pumpkins and milk cows in the fall. He was so excited to ride the bus to kindergarten, and appalled to ride it freshman year of high school. He loved to sing on stage in second grade, but was cranky about doing the spring program by fourth. He hated wearing a uniform to first grade, but just recently remarked how easy it is to always know what to wear in the morning. He looked so small sitting in his desk in sixth grade. By eighth, his teacher complained that she was always tripping over his feet. So many report cards, friends, lunches, teachers. I can’t believe it is almost over.

We rented the tuxedo for the prom this weekend. He’s not fussy. What’s most popular? Gray vest or white? Bow tie or long? What size shoe do you wear? It was easy. For him. For me, it was hard. I have to face the reality that my boy will be a man soon. Just a few weeks after prom, he turns 18. Then he graduates from high school, and he puts those uniforms, and picture days, and his 7 hour school days behind. I’ll never have to sign a test or permission for him to go somewhere again. He’ll start school again in the fall, but this time with an eye toward a degree that will help him pursue his career; his ticket to independence.

I’ve felt this before, this bittersweet feeling, regret and sorrow mixed with pride and happiness. There have been so many milestones to mark time passing, many accomplishments. This high school graduation feels poignant to my husband and me. This is our first child. The little one who first called us mom and dad. We’re happy and excited for him, but reluctant to let him go. That’s just another thing we’ll have to learn to do as parents and he’ll have to be the one teach us again.

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