I slipped into bed beside Katie this morning whispering, "Good morning to my 7th grader, for the last time." I did the same with Jackson on this, his last day as a 3rd grader. When 12:20pm arrives today, I will be the mother of a 4th grader and 8th grader. *shudder*
I've been calling out these dance cues all week, reminding the kids - and even more so, myself - of the swift passage of time. I'mthanking blaming my sister for sharing ABBA's song "Slipping through My Fingers" with me when Katie started Kindergarten, after I saw it in the movie Mamma Mia! This week, that song has been the soundtrack to my wistful dance.
(Fair warning: I do NOT RECOMMEND clicking that link if you are especially weepy this week! That is, unless you like to have all-out cry fests.)
As they walked out the door to catch the bus this morning, I caught each kid's hand and looked directly into his and her eyes. I praised them both for a school year packed with growth and dedication, chuckled about a few bumps we hit along the way, then slowly, deliberately said these words to each of them: I. AM. PROUD. OF. YOU.
In their excitement to arrive at school for last day festivities, this moment was quickly shelved and they both blew through the door.
This, to me, is parenting in a nutshell: I grasp and cling in my effort to instill weight to the moments of my family's life. I lock eyes in hopes of laser-beaming worth to the souls of my kiddos, while they are busy-busy-busy in the distracted rush of living.
I'm learning that if I wait for the monumentous (new word: monumental + momentous) days to occur before I impart meaning or try to throw up a road marker to designate the milestone of my kids' lives, I've usually waited too long.
The challenge for me as a mother - and for all of us who are in the trenches of parenting - is to acknowledge the passing time of a mundane Thursday in February as well as I do on the milestone "first" and "last" days like today.
How many mundane Thursdays have I let slip through my fingers?
Today, I realized the hourglass of Katie's school years is no longer half-full. We're down to only five more First Days of School and five piddly Last Days. Jackson has nine, which lulls me into a state of comfort with the lie of "there's still time."
I know that isn't true. And I'm also not naive enough to think parenting ends when my kids get their high school diplomas.
I have a few friends who are watching their high school seniors leave for school this morning, second guessing themselves and wondering if they did "enough" to prepare their babies for the harsh world on the other side of the threshold. They vacillate between wanting to punch their cocky senior in the teeth for being all uppity independent, or wanting to tackle them and drag them to the nearest rocking chair for one more snuggly cuddle.
These moments, these nuggets of lasts: they are enough to wear the shine off a mama's soul. What do I do when I get all weepy and heavy? I remember the shine may feel like it's dulling me, but it's just part of the polishing process my Father wants me to endure.
So I carry my joyous sadness to my Him. One friend reminded me today that "He understands the transition of children leaving." He knows the ultimate price His own Son paid to fly the coop and spread His wings in a harsh world on the other side of the threshold.
My Father knows how it feels to hold on while letting go. I pray He shows me the dance moves that will help me with this process, too.
I've been calling out these dance cues all week, reminding the kids - and even more so, myself - of the swift passage of time. I'm
(Fair warning: I do NOT RECOMMEND clicking that link if you are especially weepy this week! That is, unless you like to have all-out cry fests.)
As they walked out the door to catch the bus this morning, I caught each kid's hand and looked directly into his and her eyes. I praised them both for a school year packed with growth and dedication, chuckled about a few bumps we hit along the way, then slowly, deliberately said these words to each of them: I. AM. PROUD. OF. YOU.
In their excitement to arrive at school for last day festivities, this moment was quickly shelved and they both blew through the door.
This, to me, is parenting in a nutshell: I grasp and cling in my effort to instill weight to the moments of my family's life. I lock eyes in hopes of laser-beaming worth to the souls of my kiddos, while they are busy-busy-busy in the distracted rush of living.
I'm learning that if I wait for the monumentous (new word: monumental + momentous) days to occur before I impart meaning or try to throw up a road marker to designate the milestone of my kids' lives, I've usually waited too long.
The challenge for me as a mother - and for all of us who are in the trenches of parenting - is to acknowledge the passing time of a mundane Thursday in February as well as I do on the milestone "first" and "last" days like today.
How many mundane Thursdays have I let slip through my fingers?
Today, I realized the hourglass of Katie's school years is no longer half-full. We're down to only five more First Days of School and five piddly Last Days. Jackson has nine, which lulls me into a state of comfort with the lie of "there's still time."
I know that isn't true. And I'm also not naive enough to think parenting ends when my kids get their high school diplomas.
I have a few friends who are watching their high school seniors leave for school this morning, second guessing themselves and wondering if they did "enough" to prepare their babies for the harsh world on the other side of the threshold. They vacillate between wanting to punch their cocky senior in the teeth for being all uppity independent, or wanting to tackle them and drag them to the nearest rocking chair for one more snuggly cuddle.
These moments, these nuggets of lasts: they are enough to wear the shine off a mama's soul. What do I do when I get all weepy and heavy? I remember the shine may feel like it's dulling me, but it's just part of the polishing process my Father wants me to endure.
So I carry my joyous sadness to my Him. One friend reminded me today that "He understands the transition of children leaving." He knows the ultimate price His own Son paid to fly the coop and spread His wings in a harsh world on the other side of the threshold.
My Father knows how it feels to hold on while letting go. I pray He shows me the dance moves that will help me with this process, too.
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