The Last First

My boy is a senior. It's fine. I'm fine. You?

Well.

Here we are.

Senior year of high school for my son, my firstborn,  has desecnding upon us.

And I’m handling it like a champ.

Just kidding. Obviously I’m a disaster.

A few weeks ago, I decided to ruin the rest of my day and pulled out the stack of old photo albums. Remember those? I was quite masterful those first five or so years of motherhood taking the photo, uploading the photo, printing the photo, adding the photo to an album then even writing little notations beside the photo. This was all, of course, before the iPhone ruined our lives and now when I scroll through photos on my computer, I am bombarded not just with precicious memories, but also a picture or twelve of some throw pillows I once contemplated buy from Target eight years ago, alongside an accidental selfie showcasing chins that never got deleted.

I should really start making photo albums again.

Anyway. As I was saying.

I pulled out the photo albums and suddenly, there was my son on his first day of preschool. He clung to me, body curved into mine, his face cradling my neck and my little notation inscribed beside the photo read: “Well, this is about how it went. First day of Preschool.”

Oh how my heart ached all over again for that little boy who hated drop off so. I remember easing him off and gently delivering him to his patient teacher who promised me that he would be okay. And when I returned a few hours later, he was okay, although relieved to see me as he wrapped both arms around me in a bear hug that only toddlers can give and said, I missed you, Mama.

I missed you, too, I said. And I really had.

15 first day photos, including those preschool years. Actually….14. I couldn’t quite get that first day of kindergarten photo because my son was more distraught then ever that first day and I could do nothing but watch as tears streamed down both our faces as he was led off with the school counselor, his arms reaching back for me. I was swarmed by a circle of mothers, most of them strangers, and they consoled me and told me it would be okay. And it was.

Eventually.

It was first grade when he finally sat happy, in a desk all to himself that his baby sister oohed and ahh-ed over, a bit nervous but dry-eyed. What a relief it was to this mama’s heart to not walk away with the echos tears in her ears.

All those wiggly first day photos, his protests never failing as his small body was laden down with heavy backpacks and I pleaded for him to just smile, just for a second, just be still, just be normal oh my god we could be done by now.

As the years went on, his first day photos became rushed, my son not exactly thrilled to stand and smile simply to appease a mother’s wish. But nevertheless, I persisted, because I knew one day he would thank me. More likley, though, one day, I would thank myself.

And now we have come to the last first day.

Year 16. The first ‘last’ of senior year. And I wonder, how will I survive this year knowing everything will be a last? For so many years, the lasts slip by unnoticed, the grief hitting later. But now the lasts smack me aside the head and I must manage my mourning while relishing the moment, all while tip-toeing around the splendor that is the teenage attitude.

It’s really cruel what they do to us parents.

My mama heart is fragile and easily wounded. I still struggle to understand how we don’t get to do it all over again; how is one go around of childhood even fair? But I’ve also been parenting long enough to know that while we mourn our babes, we celebrate their growth. It just hurts a little more sometimes.

With each last I experience this year, I know it’s just a slow buildup to the biggest first of my son’s young life: first time off on his own. I’ve watched as friends have sent their kids off to college, stood on the sidelines as they’ve packed up a room and said their tearful goodbyes. These friends have promised me that while it will be hard, it will also be okay. I’ve decided that motherhood is basically other moms telling you it will all be okay and I’ve learned to believe them. But I can’t help but think that when it’s my time to say goodbye, I’ll want to cradle my face into my son’s neck while giving him big toddler bear hugs until the school counselor is forced to ease me away as I reach my arms back for him, missing him already.

But maybe I won’t. Maybe this year of lasts will help prepare me for what comes after and I’ll be fine. I’ll be ready for that first big goodbye and handle it like a rational human.

Just kidding. Obviously I’ll totally have to be dragged away by a security guard.

But enough of all this.

The year awaits and I have photos to take.

To the class of 2025: I salute you all. Have fun, be safe and go hug your mom. She needs it.

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