How can my kid be in high school?

The other day I ducked into the bathroom for something, and there was my son Michael, shaving.

It wasn't his first time; we'd gotten him an electric razor a few months back and he's been using it. That day, though, he was using a disposable, and his face had on a fluffy coat of shaving cream.

I don't think I'd seen him all lathered up, which should have been comical, but something about the picture really jolted me.

I left the bathroom with an odd feeling I couldn't identify. That was really weird, I thought, as I proceeded with my morning.

An hour or so later, as I drove to work, I thought about the shaving thing again. It was the way he was doing it: like he'd been doing it forever ... without much thought. Like a grown man. And suddenly I was overwhelmed with the reality that my baby Michael would be starting high school the following week. In spite of my efforts, tears began running down my cheeks.

I've been preparing for this day for nearly a year now, beginning with the first high school open house we attended last October. He's going to high school, my heart had screamed. Wait! I'm not ready!

It feels like the beginning of the end.

It only got worse in the spring, when his excitement grew. Dad and I could see how ready he was to move on, and we told him how proud we were of his accomplishments and the fact that he's a good kid. But at the same time, I was dreading the passing of time. I tried not to cry. "C'mon Mom," he'd complain. "It's no big deal." But for me, it was a big deal.

I kept finding myself thinking back to his first day of kindergarten. I remember the mixture of happiness and expectancy I had for him, and the sense of loss I felt then. It feels the same today, only now he's not quite so patient with me and my too-big-for-my-body emotions.

I thought I'd been discreet. I thought only fellow mothers recognized the look of panic and the well of tears that came every time I spoke of my baby going off to kindergarten. But kids are so smart and perceptive. He saw. And he asked what was wrong.

I tried to explain how he used to be such a tiny little baby and how happy I was to just sit around hold him all day. Then he became a busy toddler and I followed him around and played with him all day.

Then he went to preschool, and how I couldn't wait for him to get done each day, and now, suddenly, he's become a very big boy and he'll never be that baby again. I told him how that time is now gone, and sometimes it just makes me a little sad.

"Well," he suggested, "you have a lot of pictures of me when I was a baby."

"True, but they're not the same."

He fell silent a moment, then reached out to my cheek, knowing it would be wet. And in the darkness, he understood my sadness for yesterdays that are gone forever. He wrapped his little arm around my neck, and told me, "I'll always be your baby, Mommy."

It feels just the same for me now, but he's different. He's 14. When he thinks about his favorite girl, it's not me anymore. He doesn't kiss and hug me when he gets home from school. He has days when he seems gloomy and morose, and I can't tickle him till he feels better.

I know of course that this is how it's supposed to be. But just as when he went to kindergarten — his first stepping out, his moving on to a new phase — it signals his decreased need for a mother.

Oh, I know all the parenting books and classes say that he still needs me, and that in some manner I'll continue to influence decisions he'll make throughout his life. That's kind of like being needed, but it's not the same as brushing hair from his eyes or bandaging a scraped knee or smoothing away tears with a thousand kisses. That feels like being needed.

So as I drive him to his first day of high school, I have a lump already forming in my throat. "Don't go there!" I tell myself. "Think about doing dishes or work. Anything, just keep it together."

I tell him that Dad will be coming from the gym to meet up with us, and he turns to me and sort of complains,
"I don't see why this is such a big deal. It's just school."

I hadn't really verbalized it before, but the words that came from my mouth explained and justified my sadness, at least to me. "Yes, but the next time we take you to a first day at a new school you probably won't be living at home anymore," I told him. "So let us have our big deal, OK?"

We arrived, and he hopped out and never looked back. I didn't want to embarrass him, but I wanted a hug so badly. "Um, bye!" I called and he grunted a "bye" as he turned a corner and was gone. Once again I was back on the first kindergarten day.

I knew it was time to leave. All the other parents had gone. So I kiss the top of his head. "See you in a little while."

"OK, Mommy," he says. He doesn't even watch me go, which is probably good, because the tears I kept inside are coming for real now as I head to the door.

I peek through the window and see him already talking with the boy at his table. And just like that, he's made the transition. He's a big kid now.

Dad asks me if I'm OK as we head to our cars. I am, I guess, but before I even get to my car, big sloppy tears are cascading down my face.

I'm happy for him, really. But I can't help but be reminded that my eldest child, the one who first introduced me to a magnitude of love I never imagined, has just taken another step toward adulthood and independence and all those things that make my heart ache.

And I know his siblings won't be far behind.

* This column was made possible through a partnership between Yakima Valley Memorial Hospital Community Education program and Christina McCarthy. Christina is a freelance writer and mother of three children. She and her husband live, work and play in and around Yakima. She can be reached at: kidscount@fairpoint.net.

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