The End of an Era

This month marked a milestone in our household. Our daughters graduated . . .er . . . .the correct term is "promoted," to the next level in their academic career. My eldest is now officially in high school and my middle child is off to junior high . . . . I mean . . . "middle school."

First of all, I do not remember any fanfare from either 6th grade or 8th grade when I left to continue my pursuit of the high school diploma. Secondly, where exactly does this leave my youngest son who is also moving on to a new level, but sadly fifth grade demands no laurels.

Finally, along with this new vernacular and ceremony, it seems as though the bar has been raised for us parents.

I filed into the gym for my eldest's graduation, dodging flying balloon bouquets and vying for a seat in the bleachers. In the same fashion, We crammed into the multi-purpose room (which was called the "cafeteria" in my day), of the elementary school to witness our offspring proudly collect their promotion certificate.

In both ceremonies, there were inspiring speeches from both elite adult members of our community as well as hand-picked students. Some produced yawns, others produced tears. Slide shows are the trend, although they can't be shown without technical difficulties -- one program had a fuzzy image, the other had muffled music. But they gave me a glimpse into my child's world . . . experiences they had without me. I dread that more of those will be coming.

We encountered the impossible people who were irritated that I didn't get the memo that the world revolves around them. You know the type -- aggravated because I requested that they lower their balloon bouquet from my line of vision or rolling their eyes when I politely informed them that the front row was reserved for students (did they really think the rest of us hadn't thought to sit there?)

I am home alone, resting my tired feet which are not used to walking around in heels. My kids are off at "promotion parties" and festivities that do not include many adults. Part of me is relieved for the homework, the projects, field trips, lunch-packing and classroom volunteering is over. The other half of me wonders where the time has gone.

Like Trace Atkins crooning in my ear, I am reminded that I waited for these days to come . . . and then they do. "That's how it is." And he is right, I can't believe what I miss. I want to see my daughter's Kindergarten production of "Commotion in the Ocean" again. I want to witness my son hit his first archery bullseye at Cub Scout Twilight camp. I want to get out my glue-gun and homemade clay and shape California's typography with their hands.

Small promotion, perhaps. They are only half-way there. I have less time with them now than when they were first born. In another seven years, they could be off at college. But I would have to agree, it is quite an accomplishment to come this far, and I am all for any opportunity to let my children know how dearly I love them, how much my heart bursts with pride and how I thank God every day for placing him in our family. For they are irreplaceable masterpieces that are covered in His fingerprints.

Exactly What I Wanted

I was light headed and nauseous. Trying to focus. You'd think I was in the delivery room ready to give birth. Nope. Just a soccer mom, trying to plan the latest end-of-the-season party. When I signed up to volunteer, I thought 'How hard can it be?' I had completely forgotten the bake sale incident. It's like herding cats with flying money. Same scenario, different food.

I'm not complaining, not really. I had always wanted to be a mom. I had the maternal pulls in the grocery store when I'd pass moms with their babies perched on their shopping carts with yards of fabric and a tangle of security straps holding this person that was no bigger than a sack of flour in place. I would look longingly during my neighborhood jog at the kindergarten mid-day pick-up. The children holding construction paper works of art lathered in glitter and glue that would wave in the wind as parents dragged them to their SUVs. I had my own season of maternity wards, diapers, bottles and becoming a unique kind of detective that learned to master the art of distinguishing cries and locating toys.

So how did I get here? After spending the afternoon battling allergies on the soccer field while shouting cheers at the kids clad in cleats, I was now standing in line at the pizza parlor, picking up a tower of pizzas. The kids, whose volume had not reduced but actually increased, were peppering me with their orders.

"I'm allergic to peanuts." Fine, I don't think they make a peanut butter pizza.

"I don't like pineapple. Don't put any on mine." I don't actually make the pizza, so I suggest you choose another slice.

"I'm so hungry, can I have my own pizza?" That would be a 'no.'

"Pepperoni and olive is the only pizza that doesn't make me puke." I don't know what to do with that information.

With a headache beginning to threaten, I wrangle money from my purse as I accept the handful of cups a teenager from behind the counter gave me to distribute. I also get a handful of tokens for the game room that are actually minions of the energy gods to froth their adrenaline further.

Wearily, I make it to the table and try to stay inconspicuous as the coach launches into his thank-yous and season highlights. I listened as the coach called the kids up one by one to accept their participation trophy. When it was my son's turn, I snapped a photo and smiled as if he had just won an Olympic Gold medal. My weariness morphed into pride.

He ran straight to me with his trophy lifted high and demanded that I share his joy. Which I did, exuberantly. I held him tight in a bear hug, my heart bursting as I remembered the bundle of joy I brought home from the hospital nine years ago.

Without question, when the day is over, I know that I would do it all over again and love every minute of it. This was exactly the life I signed up for, dreamed for and the chaos that I will miss in the quiet retirement years. The trophy my son was clutching was mine as well. It represented loads of laundry, hundreds of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, permission slips, phone calls. Planning and executing nutritious dinners on-the-go, homework and play dates. Shopping and wrapping the perfect birthday gift, taxing the minivan to the next family outing.

The military has it wrong. It is not the toughest job you'll ever love, motherhood is. For all the times you think it is going to reduce you to a puddle on the floor, there is that dimension that you never knew you missed until it became a part of your world. To have someone call me mom, to be an integral part of their existence, the scrapbooks filled with pictures 'made just for me.' I was worth every minute of lot sleep and extra pound placed on my middle section.

I love my angels. They are truly a gift from God. Motherhood . . . ya' gotta try it.

Testing the Water

Blogging. Texting. Twitter. The names themselves sound so unappealing, and can be even more intimidating to join when you are a member of the generation who remembers getting their first microwave oven.

I always used to tease my parents when they were hesitant to join in our technology. Back in the day, I had a pair of cordless headphones with a matching massive antenna so you could get AM/FM radio as you walk around the block. All you needed was six C batteries and the wonder contraption worked.

Then it was the Odyssey in home game player. Long before the Wii and PlayStation, this bad boy was amazing. We would play KC Munchin, a shameless steal of the infamous Ms Pacman. If I wasn't glued to the TV watching music videos (back when MTV actually was music television) I was playing arcade games from the comfort of my livingroom couch.

Then there was the cordless phone. Gone were the days of being land locked by a cord while having a conversation. Like Charlie's Angels who had phones in their cars, with a cordless, you could multi-task while you were on the phone. Put in a load of laundry, get the mail, use the restroom . . . just don't flush! These phones were a familiar relative of the bug-like headphones that predated the Walkman, the first cell phones were as big as my purse, with a battery pack that weighed as much as a large cucumber. Cool? Definitely. Convenient? Not on your life.

So here I am, squarely planted in middle age, and am getting the same smirks I gave my parents from my teenage daughter. Her opposing thumbs masterly text on her new cell phone which has evolved to the size of a pocket calculator. I am learning, that using vowels is just a waste of time, when texting and not only must one learn the how to operate the gadget, you must be bi-lingual. Able to speak the King's English and this post-modern-no-vowels-pigeon-speak.

So I text on my phone, have a Facebook page, and am now trying my hand at blogging. My niece has one, so does (gasp) my mother! So you can teach an old dog new tricks. But I am afraid that like the silver haired fox that can finally afford his sports car, there is a portion of the population that will not be able to raise the "cool-meter" like the generation that keeps inventing the latest must-have.

Nevertheless . . . look at me mom! txtg z fun! LOL. TTFN, C U ltr.