Don’t Be Disappointed When…

You tap on your son’s door and navigate piles of clothes, hoping you are not stepping on something breakable or sharp to reach him, still drowsy in his bed.  Next fall, the room will be neat as a pin, and he will be sleeping in a dorm room in Maine.

Your son asks if you have been invited to attend the special end of year prize assembly.  You tell him no and he is downcast, but the next day, you receive an email invitation! You keep the news to yourself until the night before when he grabs your phone and you realize you should have deleted the email—still, his joyful anticipation makes you happy even though he will not be completely surprised.

Despite how hard he has worked over the last two years, he does not receive an academic award.  He does receive an award for promoting inclusion in the school, especially for LGBTQ+ kids.  You are so proud you think you might burst.

Your curried chicken wrap drips on the lavender dress that you are wearing to your son’s graduation a few days later.  No one is looking at you.

The day after his graduation you are not your best self at work. You were terse with a colleague, speaking shortly. You regret being a jerk and apologize.  It may be your son’s graduation has you more jangled than you’d like to let on.

The tuberous weeds masquerading as groundcover, ripped out last week, return in full force this week before the backyard graduation party you are planning. At least the nasty groundcover is green, even if it’s choking the real plants.

Your son snaps at you as you prepare for the graduation party. He loves you. He knows you are the one he can snap at.  Like you, he is worried that poor air quality because of the fires in Canada, will keep people from attending the party.

That same son rejects the fancy candles you found for the party because they are not on brand. It’s his vision, not yours.

The lights your husband strings in the back yard that make it look like fairyland are prettiest only after all the guests have left—it takes that long to get dark in Ohio in June.

The taco truck and the ice cream truck drive away after the party—there will be no leftovers to try to stuff into the fridge.

A few days after the party, the alarm system goes off at 3:30 a.m. but there is no fire and no burglars to be found—be glad your husband answers the phone in another state when you call and that your son is braver facing potential burglars than you are.

You drive to Columbus with your son and husband to watch students from your school play summer basketball. You have the wrong address, so only see one half of the game. Your son hushes you when you want to cheer. He does not want you to embarrass yourself—or him.

On the way home, you listen to the two men you love talk basketball, critique each girl’s abilities, discuss strategies the team will need—better defense--recall players who have now graduated—Alex, G., Taylor, Haley, Margaret, Mari, Jenaya.  Lock this memory in a tiny box to savor later—their shared love of basketball—in general—but, in particular, of your own Laurel Gators moves you.  You love the Gators, too, but you will never know as much about the game as they do.

Your son, a little blue post-graduation, asks you to go to Guardians of the Galaxy instead of The Little Mermaid.  Notice that you are both more cheerful when you emerge and recognize that it was a treat to be invited!  Fight tears when you realize these kinds of spontaneous outings will be coming to an end.  Remind yourself, firmly, that he is ready for his next chapter.

He can tell you everything about the Marvel Cinematic Universe, but doesn’t love to read as you do. Movies are to him what novels are to you. His knowledge is deep and nuanced and he not only watches films but thinks deeply about them.

You make a plan to leave for the weekend at a particular time.  But your husband still slumbers, and you realize there is no need to rush. Try to enjoy the many minutes you spend with him at the storage units. Realize it will be just the two of you in a few months and practice getting used to the idea.

Your son asks for a stitch ripper and though you know you have several, you cannot locate them.  Be proud that your needlepoint scissors were up to the job of opening the seams of the red lip-covered overalls he is wearing to the concert in Pittsburgh.

Your son, on his way out the door to Pittsburgh, grabs your raincoat—just in case it rains at the concert. You had planned to take it with you for the weekend, but you are glad he will have a mint-green Ireland-traveled raincoat if he needs one at Taylor Swift—you can always use an umbrella.

You mull over the highs and lows of the last few weeks and recognize that the limbo in between the end of high school and the beginning of college is not just hard for your son, but hard for you, too.  As the head of a school, you always remind parents not to gloss over transitions, thresholds, but to take the time to live them with their kids. Practice what you preach.  You cannot skip the hard parts.