Blink
In honor of this year's graduates
I meant to bring an umbrella. I thought about bringing a poncho. I considered grabbing some sunglasses. Any of them would be handy, as I sit on the bleachers of an outdoor stadium in the rain, then the wind, then the sun. Eclectic spring weather aside, it would have been nice to have something to hide behind as I attempt to control the emotions of the day. My baby boy is graduating from high school.
As the rain pours down, the audience is invited to stand for the procession of graduates. Battling against tears that make identification of our graduate among the throngs even more difficult from my less-than-ideal seat, I watch the class of 2015 parade past and wonder where the years have gone.
Blink. Nine months of gestation, twelve hours of labor, an hour of pushing, and finally forceps to drag a little boy into this world: chubby, crying, and wonderfully healthy, though slightly beaten up from the trauma of delivery. Before I knew it he was eating, walking, and talking—mostly about dinosaurs—on his own. “Sharptooth! Hot steam! Comin’ out your nose!” I remember the first day the preschool carpool picked him up and he walked away from me. I cried at his independence.
Where is he? His friends and classmates march by, and I can’t find him. His sister said she had seen him near the front when they practiced yesterday, but perhaps they are coming in backwards. I haven’t noticed any of his friends, either. I ask my husband and daughter who they’ve seen so far and am reassured that the graduates are in reverse alphabetical order. Finally, I identify an L, and then a K.
Blink.
Ballgame after ballgame, sport after sport, we watched him grow through elementary school: basketball’s innumerable gyms and terrible driving conditions in the winter, soccer’s wind and rain and carpools in the spring, baseball’s heat in the summer, football’s crispness (and eventually, snow) in the fall. Our little catcher finally refused to play baseball anymore in 6th grade: “It’s hot, it’s boring, and you don’t get any exercise.” Well! When he was about nine, he ran an amazing touchdown, and we told him he should carry the ball more often. He sagely replied, “The other kids need to have fun, too.”
Ballgame after ballgame, sport after sport, we watched him grow through elementary school: basketball’s innumerable gyms and terrible driving conditions in the winter, soccer’s wind and rain and carpools in the spring, baseball’s heat in the summer, football’s crispness (and eventually, snow) in the fall. Our little catcher finally refused to play baseball anymore in 6th grade: “It’s hot, it’s boring, and you don’t get any exercise.” Well! When he was about nine, he ran an amazing touchdown, and we told him he should carry the ball more often. He sagely replied, “The other kids need to have fun, too.”
I still can’t find him, but there’s an F… and a D… and finally the Bs! We’re almost to A; he must be getting close!
Blink.
I was wrestling him, in the play room. He no longer liked to be coddled or cuddled. At thirteen, he was way too cool for that; but sometimes I could tell that he needed… something. A good wrestling match usually fit the bill for affection that he wanted, but didn’t. This generally involved a little shoving back and forth, an attack by him, and a pin by me (thanks to my superior hold on gravity), followed up with some hair tousling and laughter. However, all those happy thoughts went out the window that day, as gravity lost its hold and I was suddenly lifted and swung about the room. Time slowed, and the walls of the play room swirled around me. I anticipated a painful landing and came to a more painful realization: my baby was too big to for me to wrestle anymore.
The rain has all but stopped. I work my way down the stadium stairs to where I can get a good photo. I spot another A-name and start to panic that I’ve missed my boy somehow. Then the figure behind turns his head, and there’s my son. Handsome in his cap and gown and taller than his father, he smiles at me and looks entirely too grown up. The Seniors flow into their seats, the speakers speak, and the singers sing. Their Senior Class Song, Que Sera by Justice Crew, is played and I watch them all do the dance together.
Blink.
He was so excited to start high school. Socialization was finally starting to appeal to our slightly introverted son. He attended the school games, activities, and “stomps.” He sang along and showed us the actions to the school’s 2013 song, Top of the World by Imagine Dragons. His classes were more challenging, more interesting; and his conversation, so nearly adult. Lacrosse was now the game of choice, ruling his fall and spring free time. Driving and dating and girlfriends brought new challenges for parents and son. He struggled, for the first time, with toeing the curfew line and waking up in the morning for school and keeping his grades high and informing parents of a broken taillight. He was the guinea pig, and he bore it swimmingly.
They call his name and “High Honors,” and they move on; just like that, my baby is done with high school. I snap a million pictures and try not to think about how fast the years have gone and how little time we have left before he’s flown the coop altogether. I will hold back the many tears (mostly of joy, a few of regret) and enjoy this day with him.
I meant to bring an umbrella. I meant to teach him more than he taught me. But I think it’ll all work out.