Well, well…

Each fall, when families (OK, moms) across my social network start posting first-day-of-school pictures, I’ve often found myself skimming quickly and with a hint of impatience. Yes, yes, our kids grow and change and lose their cherubic innocence. Yes, there are tears at the bus stop or drop-off or wherever it is that you watch your child walk away from you and toward some measure of independence. I’ve never been one to sentimentalize this. 

So imagine my shock to discover that this year, as my daughter starts high school, I’ve suddenly joined the ranks. For the first time, I hear the proverbial clock ticking, making me vigilant about “lasts”— the last time she’ll want my help assembling school supplies. The last time she’ll walk with me down the driveway to her pre-dawn bus pick-up. I caught myself looking at the calendar just yesterday, her first day, and counting the number of Thursdays we’ll see come and go together in her high school career (only about 40 per year!). It’s jarring to realize that something you love is likely to happen only a fixed number more times. And there will be a last time. 

Oddly, I think I’ve come to this awareness because of mindfulness practice—of following the ever-giving breath, cultivating gratitude, and naming sensations that I would have ignored before.  

For one thing, I’m able to pause and notice what’s right in front of me—and in more granular detail. More often, I register what I’m feeling as I’m feeling it, instead of having to unpack worries or resentments later, after they’ve spilled into other areas of my life. And as unhappy as I am about approaching the day my child will leave me, I now understand that loss on a spectrum of impermanence. In plain language: I will not always have my daughter with me, nor will I always feel the same sadness of her leaving. I will return to center, to balance. And she will find her own balance, without the ballast of my parenting, my everyday presence. 

That’s all to say that I see you, parents behind the cameras. I see in your first-day picture of your child the spot you’re at, not wanting to miss out, wanting to look both forward and back. I probably won’t post a first-day photo of our family (in fact I’ve already missed the deadline), but know I’m taking one—actually many—each time I remember that for every first, there is a last. And that’s OK. We’ll be OK.   

First day of school (for me), circa 1986. These were always family affairs, as both my parents were teachers.