I always get irrationally sad this time of year. Am I alone in this? It’s something about endings and beginnings; I am equally ill-equipped to handle both circumstances. Graduations, and goodbyes and page turning … it all makes my eyes burn.
So much happened this school year. Our JoJo found her strength on the bars and footholds of a ninja warrior course. She made new friends and grew a confidence I feared she would never find. You still don’t have to dig too deep to tap into the lava of sensitivity bubbling just beneath her skin, but she has come so, so far. She’s gorgeous and happy and always inventing new ways to shine. She hit double digits, and she’s going to be in fourth grade! Fourth grade! I can’t handle that.
Spike continued her path toward the Supreme Court. She had a special connection with her teacher this year. They spoke the same language and she thrived in the supportive environment. She is a sponge, absorbing the factoids and infinite details of our world. But as thirsty as she is for information, she craves justice and civility just as voraciously. And that’s what fills my bucket.
But this year is also particularly bittersweet, as we’re getting to the end of our line in one very familiar classroom. Our household’s wild-hearted Sloppy Joan has just a few days left in her preschool class. A class led by one of our all-time favorite teachers. Our third little girl is the spirited caboose bringing this period of our lives into the station. Her final day in PreK-4 marks the official end of a chapter that had three sweet installments during a particularly busy and sugary stage of our lives.
Guys, my sorrow over this can not be contained or explained. Thus, I have no other option than to go hide my face in a sticky tent of shame nestled in the camp of avoidance. Not because I don’t have respect for the situation. Not because I don’t want to give, in this case, the woman who literally loved all three of our children as if they were her own for days on end, the hug and thank you she deserves. But because my emotional break often comes on with so much momentum and on such a high end of the spectrum in comparison to others that it ends up just being altogether mortifying.
While most human, adult mothers in this situation might get “choked up” and a little misty eyed, I experience more of a torrential downpour of snotty sobs likely to collect in a pool on the unsuspecting teacher’s shoulder. I get red-faced, my mouth contorts as it loses the battle not to turn down like a drunken clown’s lips as the tears surge aggressively down my cheeks. I can’t speak. I can’t breath out of my nose. And I sure as heck can’t express my gratitude like a composed grownup. It’s a disaster. Me + sadness = 80s telenovela.
It’s like when you have your last baby, and you find yourself grieving things like the disgusting crust that falls off their belly button. It’s all one long farewell tour. The last trip home from the hospital. The last bottle. The last first steps. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. This year has felt a lot like that. The last first day. The last “Mom” painting covered in tiny ladybug fingerprints. The last time those little voices will gather around a cafeteria table and say their prayers together over muffins and apple slices. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.
Ugh! It rips my heart out. It just does. Even though she’s five years old and will likely remember approximately 3 percent of the memories she’s made over the past 150 days, it’s just too sad for me to wrap my arms around. This woman has hugged and consoled and cared for three of the four most important souls in my life. And she did it so selflessly and fully. She was all in, you guys. And that makes all the difference. And that makes it so gosh dang difficult.
I’ve been here before. When we decided to move home and I took then-baby JoJo out of the home daycare she’d been going to for nearly a year, the woman thought someone in my family had been in a horrific car accident. When our saint-of-a-sitter we had after that retired, I was curled up on the ground like she’d been given a stage six cancer diagnosis. (She’s fine, by the way.) When we told our sitter after her that we were going to put SJ in preschool instead of keeping her home … sob fest. And, in an all-too-similar scenario, when JoJo – the first in the series – was finishing up her run in PreK4, I wouldn’t take her to school for a week for fear I would fall apart in front of the other, more mature parents. See … Ill-equipped.
I can’t help it. I have a big thing for the people who make my kids a big thing. I mean, let’s be honest, they don’t even have to be that good at it. If you put your arm around my kid just one time, you’ve got a spot in my heart. But, as luck would have it, the vast majority of the folks who have cared for, taught and entertained my daughters have all been really, really good at it. Hence, the frightening clown face of tears.
So what I’m asking you all here is … is it just me? Does the cheese stand alone? Is there anyone else out there who can’t handle the change that comes with the natural progression of the standard school year? I’m attached and overly sentimental, and I can admit it. But surely there’s someone else out there eating chocolate in their closet this week. Where ya at?