Our oldest daughter, Kathryn, graduates from high school next week. And the moment which I have dreaded for 18 years is rapidly approaching. That train is barreling down the tracks straight for us. And I’m not ready.
I have gone about business as usual for most of this past year, refusing to let myself delve into the “this is the last time” mentality. Refusing to wallow. Refusing to grieve. Refusing much of the time, even to acknowledge that this is it. It’s happening. This is her last year at home. Pretending, for most of this past year, that this year was just like any other. Periodically hearing the faint whistle blow. Or seeing plumes of smoke in the distance. Reminding me as I’ve strolled along the tracks. That there is, in fact, a train coming.
Then suddenly when the calendar page turned to May, there were things to be done. Announcements to go out. Photo displays to put together for banquets and awards dinners. Decisions to be made about graduation. A reception to plan.
As each new request came I met it with my standard acknowledgement and assurance that I would take care of it. But without a lot of commitment. And certainly without excitement. I’d reassure her that I’d take care of it. Fully planning to do so. Silently dreading it.
It was one night a couple weeks ago that she came into our bedroom as I was getting ready for bed. She sat down on the bed next to me and started to talk. She told me she was worried. That she really wanted this time to be special. Her jumping off time. The acknowledgement that she was growing up and almost ready to be out on her own. The recognition of all her hard work. Her milestone. And she knew we were busy with all the kids and everything. But just this once, could we please let the focus be on her? And let her feel like this really was her time?
I nodded my assurance that we would see to it. That we’d planned to make it so.
She continued. The thing was, it was me she was really worried about. Worried that I’d put off choosing photos for her banquet display. Put it off, in my usual manner, until the night before the banquet. Then I’d stress about it. Grab a couple photos and slap them on a poster board. Handling this request, as I tend to do, almost as a stressor rather than as something special I wanted to do for my daughter. Not carefully taking the time to lovingly put together a display of her. The way all the other moms do.
And, tearfully, just this once, Mom. I really just want this to be my time. I want you to put some thought into it. Please?
And though the tears fall freely in the recalling of it, that night as I sat up in bed listening to my daughter pour out her heart, I managed to hold my own heart in check. Instead, I nodded my understanding, assuring her that I would put thought into it, and make sure this was a special time for her.
Thinking all the while how wrong she had it. That it wasn’t that I didn’t see the importance of this time for her. Nor that I didn’t realize it should be special. Rather, it was the realization that the moment I had so long dreaded, and pretended would not come, had arrived. And I was being asked not so much to acknowledge its arrival, as to celebrate it. Couldn’t I just do that one thing?
I sat there watching her with tears in her eyes, trying to explain to me how this was an important time for her. And even though I was busy, would I please try to make it be special. It should be a celebration.
And the sudden, shrill intrusion of a train whistle blowing startled me.
It was a day or two later that I locked the bedroom door, took out a box of old photos, and several photo albums, and allowed myself the luxury of reliving a lifetime. Determined to face my own heartache, and make this a celebration. Laughing at childhood photos of dress-ups, Halloweens, and family events. Carefully choosing which ones to display at several upcoming banquets. Photos to show the world the progression from the child we have loved to the young woman now before us.
I think it was relief I saw on her face when I showed her the stack of photos I’d chosen. We looked through them together, laughing, and recalling memories. I’d done what she’d asked. I’d carefully chosen a good assortment of photos for her senior banquet display. Doing what was asked of me. What was rightfully expected of me.
And maybe some other day. When this train has long since departed the station. I’ll explain to her how funny this time felt for me. How conflicted I was. How very proud of her I was. And how much I wanted everything about her graduation, and her leaving, to be special. And how very strange it was to plan a celebration around an event I dreaded. How much I wanted her to fly free. And how much I wanted her to stay safely in the nest. How impressed I was of the young woman she was becoming. And how much I missed the child she’d always been.
Maybe some other day I’ll explain all those things. Some other day. Long after this train has left the station and disappeared around the bend.
Kathryn: That was long ago. Thanks for all your years of coaching me to be a better mom. As always, Dad and I are very proud of you. Love, Mom.
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