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.