The Graduate....

Congratulations Vinny!

On Thursday evening, my oldest daughter graduated. From sixth grade. Pomp and circumstance, and chock full of hormones. Number Four met this milestone with much trepidation, but then again she's never been very big on change. Alas, it was meant to be, and she will soon head off into the great unknown that is the seventh grade. Our district doesn't have a separate middle school, so technically, she's now a high-schooler. The little fish in the big pond. It's strange to witness all of this happening thru her perspective. When I was her age, I couldn't wait to get my ass mixed up with the upperclassmen. There were shenanigans to be had, and I knew it. My daughter is much different. Don't look at me! Wait. Maybe it is my fault. She's heard a lot of stories . Maybe there really is something to be said about reverse psychology after all. 

Her elementary years went by so quickly. Too quickly. It seems like only yesterday that we were plotting our great escape from the building on that fateful day. Did I ever tell you guys about her very first day of school? I didn't? Well, I suppose it'll be much less embarrassing than me posting those naked bath time pics....

I didn't ship Number Five off to preschool. She was the baby, and supposed to be the last one. I wanted as much time with her as I could possible have in order to get a jump start on countering some of the mood swings that I now find myself facing with her. One extra year to influence and connect with her before having to relinquish her to the pressures of her peers. She'd have the rest of her life to learn how to push my buttons and proclaim how miserable I make her. One extra year to remain the apple of her eye, rather than some cootie infested, stinky boy that neither MFH or I will ever approve of. In hindsight, I should have sent her sooner. This is why. 

Number Four can be pretty shy. Throughout that last summer together, we talked a lot about making new friends, and how much fun riding on the school bus with her big brothers was going to be. By the time the night before the big to-do rolled around, she was pretty pumped. She was going to march right onto that yellow behemoth, smile really wide, and say hello to the first of many friends she would make. We woke up early, and spent a lot of time picking the perfect outfit (as these were the pre-dress code, uniformed days), and dolling her up for the occasion. Once all four were buttoned, zipped, combed, and brushed, we headed across the street to the bus stop. 

We saw the bus making the turn onto the street, and I hurried to make sure my camera was ready. That all-important, first step aboard, as well as a few more of her waving from her window seat. Yeah. It didn't happen. What did was a massive meltdown so dramatic that we ended up having to beg the driver to go ahead and pull away. I don't want to go to school! Please don't do this to me! You're my favorite parents! 

After ten more minutes of this, and an epic struggle to get her into the car, we arrived, quite disheveled at the school's entrance. Where MFH and I had to take turns prying her out of the backseat like a cat trying to desperately escape a running faucet. Several teachers and parents stared at us. I'd like to think this was with sympathy. But, truthfully? They probably thought we were simply insane. Couldn't have blamed them if they did. 

Eventually, we managed to manipulate her into the gymnasium, where the rest of the little heathens children were being corralled seated. There, we found so many of our own peers desperately running from the building cooing and oooohing and ahhhing over such ridiculousness precious little faces. We quickly found our daughter's class's spot on the bleachers, as well as a pretty stabile looking, blonde haired girl. And we wasted no time parking our kid next to her. She looked pretty normal to us. Turns out, she ended up becoming one of Number Four's closest friends. 

MFH and I shook the teacher's hand, wished him the best of luck thanked him, and hauled ass out of there as fast as our legs would carry us. By the time we got home, I really needed a beer. But the guilt would have killed me. So I decided instead to go pick up an ice cream cake. My Little Pony. Nothing says 'I'm sorry for the dump and run' like rainbow colored frosting, and a few years of therapy. I came home from the grocery store, shoved the cake in the freezer, and sat at my desk, crying. For the rest. Of. The. Day. Number Four, if you are reading this, go right ahead and feel bad. You made your mother cry. Are you happy now? 

When it was time to go back across the street and play Will She Or Won't She Boycott The Ride Home, my stomach was in knots. Seriously, I was thinking the worst. What if she refused? What if she got on the wrong bus? Oh my God! What of the ice cream cake which was then awaiting her on the dining room table melted? I was not in the mood for a milkshake. 

Suddenly, the bus rounded the corner at the top of the hill. And I waited. And waited. And waited. Because there was two other stops before ours, and somehow, it never occurred to me how slow these little Kindergarteners can be. Or how many of them forget their book bags. Or lunch boxes. Or that one last high five or hug with their friends. Finally, it was our turn. Number One was the first kid off, damn near tucking and rolling before it even came to a complete stop. Followed by Number Two and Number Three. And then, there was Number Four. Not hysterical like she'd been six hours earlier. Like I totally expected her to be. But smiling. Skipping, and waving to her friends, and politely thanking the bus driver before exclaiming to me what a wonderful experience she'd just had. Go. Figure. I wasted twenty bucks on a guilt-laden, sugar coated surprise for nothing.

The moral of that story is to never waste your money on the ice cream cake. The beer would have made for a more interesting and happier afternoon. Oh, and that kids are pretty resilient little people. And, that our time with them is so fleeting. Before you know it, they turn into young women (and men), and you will wish for nothing more than the plans they've made with their friends on the weekends to fall thru, so that you could spend just a little bit more time with them. If you've got 'em, enjoy 'em. Because sooner or later, we have to let them grow...

...Wait 'Till They Get A Load Of The Next One!

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