Don't Blink

"Don't blink!"

“It goes by so fast!”

“Enjoy every moment.”

“Before you know it, they’ll be driving!”

“Before you know it, they’ll be headed off to college!”

When you become a parent, so many people feel the need to warn you about the fact that your child will grow up. So. Many. People. I found it annoying for a while. Isn’t that what it supposed to happen? Isn’t that the actual plan? Then before I knew it…well you can guess what happened.

I was the one doing the warning. I’d do it, and then I’d cringe. You didn’t want to hear that, don’t make other people listen to it.

But it’s TRUE. It happens so, so fast. One minute you’re dropping them off for their very first day at kindergarten. Leaving them. Completely and utterly alone. OK, that was an exaggeration – of course he wasn’t alone. But it felt like it. It felt like I was abandoning my child in this unfamiliar place, with these unfamiliar people, and there was going to be all of these expectations of him…reading, writing, MATH! The kindergarten teacher looked at me with warm, gentle, understanding eyes (get it together, Cassie, DO NOT fall apart in front of this woman, these other parents) as she hands me this paper bag and says, “Here, this is for you, mom. Don’t worry, he’ll be fine.” (Goddammit, I will NOT cry). I give my child one last wave, his lower lip quivering (I know what phrase is running through his mind) and I walk out of the classroom door, out of the school building, straight to my car. I will not cry, I will not cry, I WILL NOT CRY.

I drove straight to my parents’ house. I walked in the front door and my own mother was standing in the kitchen cooking. She took one look at me and before she could utter one word of sympathy or encouragement, I broke down completely. Sobbing like a 5-year-old who just lost her favorite cabbage patch doll I fell into my mother’s arms. So much for my unwavering strength, I told myself harshly. My goodness, I was NOT expecting to lose it, but I did. And my mom was there.

It’s funny how things come full circle. I am sure she was remembering dropping me off at kindergarten, probably seemed like it was yesterday, too.

And so it went, day two, day three, day four. On day four, my child was not having it. He had done what we asked – he went to kindergarten. As far as he was concerned, his part was over. At the classroom door on that day, he cried. And cried. I tried to reason with him. His teacher (bless her soul – a wonderful woman) tried to coax him into the room. He would not budge from the doorway. “Why?? Why do I have to go??” What’s the right answer? What do I tell him? “You have to go to learn, honey. You have to learn to write and read and do things so that when you are a grown up you can have a job.” (I couldn’t come up with anything better, really?) Through big, fat streaming tears he cried, “how much longer do I have to do this?” “Twelve more years, until you graduate from high school” I told him (what the hell is wrong with you, I was thinking - why would you say that??) “YOU MEAN I HAVE TO DO THIS FOR TWELVE MORE YEARS??!!" That poor child. Twelve more years. It was an eternity.

Except it wasn’t. It was only a minute. And not a 60 second minute, either, but one of those minutes that goes by while you’re doing something you absolutely love, like sitting on the summit of a mountain, or watching your favorite TV show with your child. Why couldn’t it have been one of those minutes that happens when you are running, or a minute during a Friday afternoon while you are at work? Twelve years. Gone by in 60 seconds. Just like that.

This is what is supposed to happen. We have children, raise them, teach them, love them, nurture them, all so that they can grow and mature and become the adults that we’ve molded them to be. To spread their wings, to build their own lives and careers and homes and families. So that they can then do the same – it’s the circle of life, right?

That child is now not only finished with his TWELVE WHOLE YEARS, he’s decided to go for four (or six) more. Don’t get me wrong, I am thrilled that he’s decided to go on to college. Ecstatic. Proud, to say the least. That child who hated school from kindergarten right up to about eighth or ninth grade wants to continue his education. Which means I have to leave him at an unfamiliar school, in an unfamiliar city, with unfamiliar people. All by himself. Completely and utterly alone. Am I exaggerating again? Eh, maybe. I mean, he will have one friend there. And he’ll make friends, I am sure, just like he did in kindergarten. And will I be strong? I think so. I’d like to think I’ll hold it together, for him if not for myself. I mean, do I really want him having to deal with a sobbing mother when he will most certainly have his own high emotions to deal with? Absolutely not. So, I WILL be strong. While I am there, with him.

But you can bet your ass I will be sobbing like that doll-less 5-year-old as soon as I am out of his sight. Out of his room, out of his dorm, on the way to the car and all the way home.

Straight into my mom’s arms.

So, don’t blink.