The mid-April shift has arrived, evident from growing anticipation of summer and numerous notifications for end-of-the-year school events:
Last chance to order a yearbook!
Kindergarten Round-Up next week!
Final Exam schedule posted!
We have roughly thirty more days of school left, and these last weeks are buzzing with--well, what is this feeling, exactly? Sure, there's excitement and relief; but the more familiar we become with these end-of-the-year celebrations, the more we realize how quickly they come and what they really represent--change.
This time last year, I felt a growing knot in my stomach as the school year sped up and we prepared for Nella's elementary school graduation. I was not prepared for the grief I would feel or the exploration into that grief that would be necessary. For six years, we enjoyed the privilege of not having to worry about a lot of the things parents of kids with special needs worry about. She had an inclusive academic experience, a vibrant social life, a close-knit community of school staff and friends who believed in her abilities, and a brother who attended the same school. All I could hear in my head as we prepared for those end-of-year celebrations this time last year was a voice whispering, "It's all ending."
Last chance to order a yearbook!
It’s all ending.
Get your tickets to fifth grade graduation!
It’s all ending.
Sign the permission slip for middle school tours!
It’s all ending.
By the time Nella walked across the cafeteria graduation stage, all grins and pride, I could barely hold it together.
It's all ending.
For two days following her graduation, I went into The Cave--what my friends and I refer to as the dark space we periodically enter during grief or life funks where we shut everyone out and fully feel our emotions. I wrote notes to Nella's teachers, I looked at photos of her school events over the years, I replayed videos of her walking in the fifth grade parade, and I cried. It’s all ending.
There is something I've learned, though, about these "It's all ending" spells I feel with change. Often, after two dramatic days of crying in the cave, I emerge back into life with weird optimism--like motivational speaker "It's going to be great!" energy. Gradually, it evens out to a nice healthy balance of recognizing that change is hard, and some things do end. But change always gives way to new chapters that hold good things to come.
I miss a lot of things about Nella's elementary years, but that ridiculous voice that told me everything was ending was completely wrong. She's not only maintained her friendships from elementary school; she's made new ones. She has a different team of teachers who recognize her capabilities and challenge her just like last year's teachers. Nella's confidence has grown in new areas this year as she's tried cheerleading, conquered riding the bus every day and is looking forward to participating in her first theater production next weekend. And her "first cell phone" milestone this year brought us new teenager text delights we didn't see coming--"Mom, come pick me up," "I'm bored" (texted from one room over), and my personal favorite--bus selfies.
At any given time in all of our lives--and especially in motherhood--there's an era closing, a chapter ending and a favorite sun that's setting. But what always follows is another sun rising. If this time of year brings you mixed feelings for a curtain that's closing, just wait--there's another show coming.
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Need a reminder of all the good that lies in store? We finally have some merch! There's one more week of the "There is More" collection pre-sale. This mantra is my compass, reminding me that celebration and delight are available in every phase of life. Just because a good phase is ending doesn't mean we can't create more joy in the next. If you're preparing to send your senior off to college, might I suggest wearing one of our shirts while you dry your eyes.
