I wrote this years ago when my son, Sam, who is now 37, was graduating from high school. It actually applies both to moms and dads and grandmas and grandpas who will soon watch a beloved child or grandchild reach one milestone, on the brink of another.
Sam, soon I will watch you walk down the aisle to receive your high school diploma. We both will be surrounded by family and friends – many of them who have known you all or most of your life.
Immediately after taking my seat, whether it is in your high school’s auditorium – or weather permitting – in the outdoor courtyard, I will casually look around for something to count: bulbs in a chandelier, seats in the balcony, leaves on the nearest tree. I do this as a preventative measure. When the ceremony gets too heart wrenching and sobs threaten to tear forth torrentially, I will simply focus on something tangible and non-emotional to count until the moment passes. Counting calms my churning emotions.
I’m wondering if my parenting is ending, just beginning in earnest, or changing.
I know myself as a parent: Do I really know you?
Roger Kamenetz writes in his book Terra Infirma, about Michel de Montaigne. He says that if Montaigne titles a piece “On Coaches,” his subject is not coaches. Because Montaigne is constantly aware of his subject, he can then digress so freely.
That is how I feel about your graduation – an event etched in my consciousness since the first day you started your senior year. But at this critical juncture, like Montaigne, I find myself digressing too.
I thought of your graduation every time I parked on the street because our driveway was filled with your friends’ cars. I thought of it every time I looked out my kitchen window and saw you intensely playing wiffle ball with friends and brothers.
I thought of your upcoming graduation many midnights when I pulled the pillows over my head to block out the noise of raucous male guffaws and more subdued female chatter emanating from the family room.
I thought of it when I hit a computer glitch, when I needed wardrobe advice or a quick course in world geography. Each time, I called on you or one of your classmates.
Next year the house will be neater, quieter, more organized and emptier. And your youngest brother, Lou, and his friends will take over the family room and basement and backyard and driveway just the way you and your friends did when your older brother, Max, graduated.
Will you need me less, or more, or not at all?
Will I miss you some, a lot, or not at all?
Did I do a good job?
Is there still some time left to fine-tune the rough patches?
Do you know how much I love you? How proud of you I am?
Is it too late for advice?
I think of the sign I saw on an office wall recently: “When you blame others, you give up your power to change.” I shared it with you at breakfast. You’ll no longer be around to hear about my latest findings. Thank goodness for E-mail.
Graduation is here. Time is up for digressing. My ears pick up the first faint notes of Pomp and Circumstance. I look around for something to count and I begin: 1, 2, 3…
Love,
Mom