Today marked the end of an era, the last time I would walk my daughter to the elementary school bus stop. I mentioned this to her on our jaunt and she rolled her eyes at me.

“Mom, it’s the same bus stop for the jr. high and high school buses.”

“Yes,” I replied, “but it’s the last time you’ll be getting on the bus going to the elementary school.”

“Whatever.”

Whatever indeed. Saying good-bye is bittersweet. It’s been a good run, ten years at one school, a stability I never knew as a child. Perhaps this is why I understand, maybe better than some, that while leaving is hard, there comes a time when it becomes necessary. Not any easier, just necessary.

A couple of weeks ago, I sat around a table designed for shorter legs in chairs made for smaller hips enjoying a lunch given by teachers for the parents who came and helped in their classrooms. It was the staff’s way of saying thank you for the labor of love called volunteering. For me, it was an opportunity to sit with some of my favorite moms and chat with teachers on something besides my daughter’s classwork.

The majority of us huddled around the table were moms with graduating 6^th graders, parents with one foot out the door, so naturally the conversation made its way to what we were looking forward to for next year. For some, this was their first child venturing into the scary world of jr. high. For others, like myself, it was our last. To say I was bouncy would probably be an understatement. I was ready to go. I was done. I was out of there. But not everyone at the table was; some were a little  weepy, mourning the change that was coming.

I’m a career volunteer. When I gave up a regular paycheck it was for the purpose of making sure my kids got the best possible start. I’m not home schooling material but I like to contribute. So, over the years, I discovered the things I loved to do that helped the school and my kids and I did them. Some of these things were my babies. I invested countless hours over the years, scheduling my week around doing these tasks, cultivating these opportunities.   How was I okay walking away from this?  Because I knew there was a new brigade of volunteer moms ready to claim my school, my library, my hallways and teachers as their own. Fresh eyes, new blood, untainted enthusiasm.   It was in good hands.

Still, I have found myself offering to come back, to help, to be there and I realized this was not necessarily fair. To make something your own, there has to be some time to learn it yourself. It’s like running. Run far enough and long enough and you will know more about your body and your mind than you might want. Nothing shows your age, your abilities, your declining pace faster than training for a race. You know how fast you can run. You know what it feels like when running is like flying and what it feels like when it doesn’t. You know every ache and twinge and spasm and what each ones means and exactly what you need to do to fix it. When you’ve volunteered in a school for ten years, it’s much the same.

As I drove home from the lunch, I tried to figure out why I wasn’t in tears. Why wasn’t I having a bigger issue with leaving? Did I have tougher skin? A colder heart? Too cynical a look on the world? Then, as I drove through the housing area, I passed a mom of one my son’s classmates walking to her mailbox. She smiled at me and waved. The breeze was blowing through her hair, her stride was long, her step bouncy. It was the walk I had seen many times at high school football games and band concerts and basketball tournaments. It was a walk I never understood until the moment I drove past her. This was a walk of a woman who had seen the future – and the future was good.

“Whatever.” That’s my daughter’s way of saying it’s no big deal, Mom. She’s moving on, she has her friends, she has a summer in front of her. She’s spent three years at the jr. high for early morning orchestra on top of being dragged to her older brother’s basketball games and band concerts and hanging out in the library when I volunteered. She knows where she’s going. She’s ready and it’s time. For both of us.

I briefly considered turning around and going back to the luncheon to assure the moms it was going to be okay, but I didn’t. Four years ago when my son was headed to jr high, would I have believed me? Probably not. But now, I know better.  The future was something I had to do for myself. I had to live it, experience it, and believe in it before I was able to let go and look forward.

I have seen my future. And it’s good. So, onward.

Talk about a warm up you want to give a wide berth to…

First, I love my mother, and thankfully, my mother loves me. I wouldn’t go as far to claim favorite child status, but I’d say I’m in the top 3. I read an article once about birth order and how that influences your family relationships. The article explained how, as a middle child, I never had my parents’ attention all to myself and thus became a master of manipulation in order to get it. This doesn’t mean all middle children are evil masterminds or complete brats. It just means in order to get a moment of undivided attention, middle children watch and listen and learn how to best orchestrate a situation in order to grab a little limelight. Read your dad’s favorite comic strip and laugh together over the joke. Play the sport your mom lettered in in high school and listen to her glory day stories while she celebrates yours. Never pick up your laundry/shoes/books/plates/cups/utensils and shove everything under your bed on cleaning day. That last one is a tried and true way to get individualized attention. Trust me.

Never being the one with all the focus means you grow up a little less dependent on your parents than your older and younger siblings. That doesn’t mean I’m any more independent or that I love my parents less, but it does mean I don’t call home as often as I should. Sorry.

But does any of this mean I’m more or less like my mother? Good question. Looking back, I spent the first 20 years of my life taking my mom for granted more than I should have. (Did I seriously look at my mom and say, “Why should I have to do all these jobs? You’re home all day! You don’t work!” Oh yes, yes I did – because obviously raising me was a piece of cake…*headdesk*) The next 10 years, AKA my 20’s, I tried everything to prove I was nothing like my mother, my 30’s realizing I was everything like my mother, and now, half way through my 40’s , hoping my mother knows I appreciate her as much as I do.

You see, I’m one of the lucky ones. I know that now. But just this year, it hit home in a big way. This story starts 25 years ago at Purdue University. I transferred schools in-between my freshman and sophomore years, and instead of being four hours north I was now a short hour and 15 minute drive from home. It was half way through the year and my parents thought it would be a good idea for me to go through sorority rush. Purdue is a big place and having a smaller world to call my own they felt would be a good way for me to settle in. Rushing as a sophomore though is hard. A pledge class has 15 or so spots and only 1 or 2 go to second year students. But I made it through to the final round only to not be invited to join a house. In the beginning, rushing was something my parents had wanted, but after all the events and all the small talk, I did, too. Not getting in hurt more than I expected, especially since my freshman roommate didn’t come home that night, having received an invitation to join.

I don’t remember how I made it back to my dorm. I don’t remember the phone call home. I’m pretty sure tears were involved. What I do know, is that less than two hours later, my mom was on the doorstep of my dorm room. She came to hug me, to spend the night, to tell me she loved me. She drove through the night to sleep on the top bunk of one of the most uncomfortable bunk beds ever constructed to make sure I would be okay. And in the end, I was. I did join a sorority, one that did things a little differently, made wonderful friends, had a fantastic three years at Purdue and didn’t think back on my mom’s midnight drive until this past winter.

My son is a 6’5” sophomore, skinny as a rail, freakishly long arms and huge hands. His stature screams, “BASKETBALL!!!!” however he didn’t start playing until seventh grade. Not the most aggressive guy on the court, his coach-ability earned him a spot on the Jr. High JV team in 8^th grade and a spot on the high school’s C Team in 9^th grade. At the end of the season, his C Team coach declared Nate his favorite at the basketball banquet, on a microphone, in front of all the parents and players. “What? I can have favorites!” he declared.

With a review like that, Nate felt pretty confident going into tryouts his sophomore year. On the second day of tryouts, however, Nate suffered a concussion. He sat out the third and final day, came home, and went to bed. Unlike my son, I wasn’t going to bed not knowing. Nate had planned his year around making the basketball team. He didn’t join early morning jazz band. He wasn’t playing guitar anymore. He was a basketball player.

And then he wasn’t.

The list of players went up on the website shortly after 10pm. All height had been cut from the teams. A leaner roster geared toward a new offense designed to take the team to its first ever State Tournament, an offense that needed aggressive speed, was posted. Nate wasn’t on the list.

I saw every half hour on my clock for the rest of the night. My heart was broken for my son. He wanted this. Wearing the sweatshirt to school declaring him a basketball player gave him a swagger he didn’t have before. It gave him an identity. A place. I cried for the disappointment and pain he would wake up to. I wanted to go into his room and hug him like my mother had driven through the night to do for me.

And finally, 20 years down the road, I understood. My mother didn’t drive through the night just for me. She made that trek for herself, too, to help mend her broken heart, to help relieve her worry, to assure herself I really would be okay, because when you love a child, your heart isn’t your own anymore. It walks around outside your body laughing, learning, failing and, if you’ve done your job right, growing up so it can come back to you and say thank you. For everything.

Am I like my mother? Yes, yes I am. Maybe not in the ways she wishes I was (I will never iron my pillow cases, Mom. Ever.) but I like to think I am in the most important ways. I have a good example to follow, after all. One of the best.

I did not hug my son that night, but I did go into his room and whisper in his ear that I loved him before I leaned down and did something I hadn’t done in too long a time. I kissed the top of his head.

Because come on – when your kid’s 6’5” kissing the top of his head is a bit difficult.

You know, it’s probably not a good sign when you sit down to do a writing warm up and start arguing with the warm up. A second? What kind of second are we talking? Is it an actual click on the clock or are we talking one of those mystical seconds. You know, the kind of thing like love at first sight or in a second everything changed. How do you measure “first sight”? And can anything change in a second? This five minutes has 5×60 so 300 seconds in it. A lot can happen in 300 seconds. But we’re just talking one. Like a blink of an eye. Now that can happen in a second. A heartbeat can, too. Actually, several, unless you’re an incredibly in shape type person and then maybe only one. Of course, if you’re in that good of shape, you probably aren’t spending five minutes arguing with a writing prompt. You’ve probably figured out the prompt is rather set in its ways and isn’t about to change so you might as well get on with it in the remaining 150 seconds you have left. What would I do with only 150 seconds left? Does this become one of those “live life to its fullest because it’s gone before you know it” kind of things? You could blink a lot in 150 seconds. 140. 130. Somehow, I don’t think sitting here arguing with a sentence is living. It’s being stubborn. Can you be stubborn for only a second? No, pretty sure that’s a not. But I suppose you can decide if you really want to eat the whole bag of m&ms in a second or go for a run instead. You can kiss your kid or your husband in a second. You can also realize your son’s need to argue simple things such as “make a list of things that happen in a second” comes from you. Yup, totally from you. You can also realize in the second after that you probably owe your husband an apology for those genetics. Sorry, honey.

Okay, so the prompt was originally “What’s your worst Thanksgiving dish ever?” but I couldn’t think of one.  I mean, there are several I don’t prefer (and saying that leads to a whole other blog post bout my childhood) but none I’d qualify as worst.  Thanksgiving is an awesome holiday with a pretty much set menu (which is one of things that makes it awesome).  So, on the odd chance one of the family grandmas figure out the internet sometime soon and stumble across this blog, I thought I’d better stick to something that is a known “worst” holiday dish in my family: hot fruit.

Much like Thanksgiving, Christmas in my home growing up, no matter where we lived, was pretty much a set menu.  Spiced Bundt cake, pink grapefruit, some form of protein (on a good year, smokey links in BBQ sauce because nothing says “fa-la-la-la-la” like a small fondue pot and a toothpick food).   Sometimes the Bundt cake was switched out to be Monkey Bread, but a big hunk of sugared carbs was always there.

Then came that fateful year when my mom, bless her heart, decided it was time to try something new.  Let’s call it the 1980’s and blame it on that.  Somewhere she’d come across a recipe for hot sliced citrus fruit – grapefruit, oranges – baked in some type of sugared syrup with spices – fennel seems to ring a bell.  Aesthetically speaking, it was one nice looking dish, the fruit all dominoed on top of each other, served in the Royal Dalton casserole (which NEVER went in the dishwasher or microwave!).  My mom was rather proud and pleased of herself indeed.  And she should have been.  Alas, however, she was saddled with three kids who hadn’t quite reached a point in their maturity to clue in on the effort and gracefully try it.  I can’t remember what my siblings did, but I’m pretty sure out of my mouth came something rudely obnoxious like, “Hot fruit belongs between two crusts served with ice cream not at Christmas!”  *headdesk*

It was the one and only time we had hot fruit.  Now, have I grown up any?  Eh.  Debatable.  Have I served things to my children and have they reacted in the same way?  Oh yeah.  And I deserved it.  But hey, if anything came out of the hot fruit debacle it was this:  When I serve my children a “hot fruit” dish, I call my mom because that’s what you do when your own actions sit around your kitchen table and serve it right back to you.