My firstborn…
…Went off to middle school and I have no idea what to write.
My firstborn went off to middle school and I have NO CHOICE but to write. (It’s either that or scrub ceiling corners with a toothbrush; who put all of this wild, buzzy, not-fully awake energy into my body?!)
Oh, friends. My firstborn went off to middle school and it’s been so long in between blogging times that I’ve forgotten how to write. (In this space at least, although my notebooks are feeling a tad lonely, too…)
So yes, Nora started sixth grade in a new school, in a new new town, and she looked so cool and she looked so small but she looked so ready in a way that I probably never was and probably still do not look.
And I just let her go. In fact, I drove her there to let her go. (What sort of bullshit is that?) We listened to her favorite playlist on the way there- which, truth be told, is hundreds of songs deeper than my current favorite playlist and largely more crowd-pleasing.
The song Rude by Magic! (which is an awkward thing to type, that exclamation point, don’t pop stars worry about the weirdness of having to type out their names- or is that maybe part of the appeal) came on, and Nora laughed, having forgotten that she’d added that one. Because it had been her favorite song in kindergarten. KINDERGARTEN. And as she giggled about, you know, the good ol’ days I was transported back to that first day of elementary school. Her wonderful kindergarten teacher had a private Instagram account set up for the classroom and had promised to post updates and fun moments…and damn if I didn’t start scouring the thing once I had dropped her off.
Like, maybe before their tiny coats had even been hung up on tiny hooks.
Because, you know, where was she? Was she happy? Did she have a question she was afraid to ask so was she sitting there feeling badly about her own inability to ask a brave question? (For example.) Did she need to use the bathroom? Did she know where the bathroom was?
And that was kindergarten. And now it’s sixth grade. And as soon as I dropped her off I wished desperately for a picture of her hanging a larger jacket in a gigantic locker. (Did she have a question she was afraid to ask so was she sitting there feeling badly about her own inability to ask a brave question? Did she need to use the bathroom? Did she know where the bathroom was?)
Was she happy?
On the drive back home I thought of when I had her. After a glorious maternity leave, I took her back to work with me as a full-time nanny for terrific families who made gigantic accommodations for a new mom and an impossibly tiny baby. But still, as I woke her on those dark, dark January mornings and navigated a Chicago commute with a carrier, a baby seat, a diaper bag, and a work bag, I would sometimes cry- Nothing would ever (ever!) feel this hard.
Except, of course, it did. Every stage in my life that’s been worth having has been the hardest hard ever to be hard…until it wasn’t. Until it was the new normal, until it felt like a dance, until I shrugged into that dance like a cozy hoodie, a hoodie that I loved and proclaimed to be the very best hoodie, what did I even do before I wore this hoodie?
But hoodies stretch out or accidentally get shrunken in the dryer or fray on the hems- sometimes there’s nothing even wrong with the hoodie, but it’s time to wear something new for a bit. And the new item of clothing is probably going to be really itchy, or have stupid buttons or, Jesus Christ, be hand-wash only, WHO CHOSE THIS STUPID CARDIGAN.
Friends, I’m in the hand-wash only stage of this new game. And it’s dumb.
This morning, after Nora was happily/unhappily/who knows ensconced in middle school and after Jasper and Suzy took the bus (the bus!!) to school for the second morning ever in their entire lives, I came back home with P.J. and realized something.
I blinked.
Oh God, I hate that sentence. But I did, I blinked. A job hazard of working in magazines and online for so many years created a nearly obsessive need to document ages and stages of my kids’ lives, and gave me the false sense of security against Missing Any Milestones. And I was present. Very, very much so. I could make a flip book of Jasper’s new shoes alone, but thousands of iPhone photos couldn’t save me from the very real moment of ohmyGodwaitwhat that I experienced this morning.
I know how time works. But clearly, I do not know how time works. Or maybe the better thing to ask is- why does it work so fast? Clearly a pandemic’s worth of remote/hybrid learning and milestone after milestone after milestone up in my face every single day should have prepared me. After fifth grade, yes, comes sixth grade, yes, she goes to school here now, yes, you have to drive off now WHUT.
I miss my baby. Not just the one I drove away from today (although a li’l “proof of lunch line” would do my heart wonders) but also the infant one snugged against my chest at work, a stabilizing hand on my cheek as if to say yes, yes, this is crazy but we’re here together, Mom. And I miss the future one, the one who’ll check in with texts and Facetimes or flying car vids from college, from Europe, from the moon. Because if the kindergarten to sixth pipeline is any indication, time picks up speed with each dumb, amazing, wonderful year. I see friends with kids in high school, babies off to college, and I’m acutely aware that I will never be fully (or even partially) ready to not have that baby merely a squeezed hand and raised eyebrow away from me.
Yesterday after middle school orientation, I asked Nora what she wanted to do before it was time to pick up her sibs at the bus stop. She wasn’t sure. It was pouring rain, her brain and body were buzzing with the energy I’m feeling today, so I made her some tea.
I put on some Enya. (You laugh, but I’ve never met an anxiety attack that couldn’t at least be temporarily staved off by Enya playing in the background.) I pulled out a puzzle, tossed some fluffy blankets on the couch, and invited her sit with me for a few- but only if she wanted to.
For a couple of hours, she wanted to. We solved the very real, very tangible problem of a jigsaw puzzle, downed multiple cups of tea, and focused all of our nervous energies on how Petra was doing. (Was she super uptight today? She seems off. Poor Petra. Maybe Petra needs a nap? We should both nap so that Petra feels safe to nap.)
And maybe that’s my new role with my middle-schooler, maybe there’s no stabilizing hand on the cheek, but maybe we can emote for the dog and share memes and wait for the post-lights out deluge of bedtime feelings to pour out of her busy mind. And even though there’s no way I’ll ever- ever!- be able to fully let go, I can probably release a (tiny) bit of the worry.
Because even in a frequently frightening, always shifting time of uncertainty and weirdness and yes, yes, this is crazy, we’ll be “here” together. We’ve done a good job of laying the groundwork for this fantastic little/not-so little person. She’s done a good job of saying yes to the things she wants, even when they scare her a little.
And I know she’ll be happy.
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