Today marks the last Friday of summer. Come Monday I will be the mother of a middle schooler. This is simultaneously hysterical and frightening. Middle school marks the transition to so many developmental milestones, not to mention facial hair and a changing voice (possibly for both of us). Hold me. Karma has one foot propped outside the stage curtain, waiting to make her debut. I’m willing myself to not look at baby pictures of Bird or read my first day of kindergarten posts. Here we enter the time I pass the baton to Kismet, the time when I can no longer protect my son at every turn. He’s going head first and headstrong into this stage. We’ve always maintained the philosophy that we are raising adults, not children. Our steadfast goal has been to raise sons who are independent, kind, generous, and productive. We need to trust that we are doing just that and trust our children to make good choices. I’m not gonna lie, this is really hard.
I will not helicopter. I will not smother. <<Repeat this mantra as necessary.>>
Meanwhile, my baby boy Deal starts fourth grade. He’s still a kid who revels in LEGO, fart jokes, and playing with his food. He has no one to impress. He is quirky, confident, and a tish complex. Deal has always been an old soul with a mind and heart that teeter in equilibrium. This is his first year without his big brother in school. All signs point to this being a positive turn of events. As the younger sibling of a really bright, accomplished brother myself, I can relate. I was happy to have a couple years of being ME in school instead of someone’s little sister. I know Deal will thrive.
I do wonder about myself in all this. How has my identity changed? What will I do to channel my talents and energy? Who will need me now? I’m exploring all these new dynamics and waffling a bit. The ways my sons need me are evolving, and this is where the tough part of parenting comes in. Sometimes I yearn for the simple days of wiping butts and snuggling for books and nap time. Yet I marvel at the boys my babies have become, each with his own talents, insights, whims, passions, and idiosyncrasies. I still see traces of the baby boys they once were nestled into their facial expressions and mannerisms. I do a double take when I watch them sleep, caught in a time trap of their baby selves and their more mature boys-to-men.
This is a time for celebration, not a time to wallow in melancholy reflection. We’ve shepherded our boys this far. There will come a time we yearn for these times, thinking back on their boyhood when we are empty nesters. I recognize this. For now, I will stand straight and proud as I kiss my boys and trust we’ve served them well to meet new challenges, be a friend to others, make responsible choices, and carry on their insatiable curiosity.
They are in good hands, even if they aren’t mine.