Here we go. Another school year begun, another summer gone. I am so ready to have my kids back in school and so not ready to watch another year of their lives march right on by me, pitiless and indifferent as those marching years have always been. Think your kids are young? they say. Look up, lady: your oldest is starting high school. That’ll teach me to leaf through the Park and Rec pamphlet looking for Storytime at the Library and Playgroup at the Park. Those days are long gone, and with them, my Young Motherhood. It’s enough to make a mom get mushy, and not in a good way. And I know myself well enough to know that if I let that dark mushiness settle in my heart and on my mind, it will take a therapist and a wet-vac to suck it back out. That’s too expensive and too much trouble, so instead I’ll mask my emotions with a contrived, offhand attitude and cheap attempts at humor (i.e., I’ll keep writing this blog.) But the truth is, I’m a little heartbroken that my kids are growing up. And I don’t really know how to process it except to say, “It’s Tuesday, and I need to cleanmy house, go to Costco, and get the kids to violin and swim practice before dinner.” And that is what I’ll do next Tuesday and the [tcsublocker id=”2a964ec61364eded3″ fields=”firstname,lastname” title=”Enjoying “To Mushy Mothers Like Me?” Enter your contact information to read the rest!” message=”It’s worth it and just takes a moment. As a subscriber you’ll receive updates, freebies, and occasional correspondence from me. -Jennifer”]
Tuesday after that, and I’ll try not to think about how each Tuesday marks one less week that my children will remain Children. I’ll just keep doing Tuesday. It’s all I can do.
And this Tuesday, my three children were:
Thrilled to be a freshman having her picture taken in really bad lighting. (Sorry, Rache.)
Excited to be a seventh-grader with her Dippy Dad photo-bombing through the window. (Sorry, Meg.)
Looking forward to third-grade with nine friends (he already counted!) in his class. And a shirt that kind of matches the shorts. (At least it’s not the polo, Ethan. You won.)
And so it begins, the relief and heartache of starting another school year. I’m happy. I’m sad. I’m nervous, I’m nostalgic. I’m relieved, I have a heartache, I have a headache.
But mostly, I am reassured: by a Two-Thumbs-Up-Head-Cocked-Psycho-Eyeballed eight-year old telling me, It’s all good, Mom!
And so it is.