Tags and Transitions

 

    For the past twenty years or so my end of the summer focus has been on readying my kids for their ride on the big yellow school bus. It seems like it was only a few moments ago that I pinned a manila tag to their clothing before they stepped on that bus for the first time.  The kindergarten kids were always identifiable by those tags.  The information contained on them; the child’s name, the teacher’s name, the bus route number and the bus stop location ensured that they would be returned to me at the end of the day.

 

  For the first week or so of school I would pin that tag to my child in a place of prominence.  Inevitably the day would come when my child would push back about wearing it.  After all they were grown up now and knew which bus to ride.  They protested.  I protested more.  In retrospect I wonder if those tags were more for the parent’s peace of mind than for the child’s wellbeing. That manila piece of paper had been my insurance policy.  I simply had to trust that my children would find their way home to me.  They did. 

 

 

  Parenting is hard work.  It requires an immense amount of patience and an equal amount of resolve.  When our children are placed in our arms we are smitten for life.  However, this object of my attention did not arrive with an instruction manual.  Parents are both overjoyed and overwhelmed with the required daily tasks. We breathe, dig deep and carry on.  Some days are easier than others.  And some days are just plain hard.

  Through the years the words “When is this ever going to end” became my mantra. While in the parenting trenches there have been many occasions where I have whispered, spoken and, yes screamed these words. 

   I remember dragging myself out of bed for those two and three o’clock in the morning feedings. They could have been times of quiet connection but exhausted I did my best to stay awake for the feeding and I wished my baby back to sleep.

    There were the countess diaper changes. My pocketbook begged for relief.  It seemed as if Pampers and Huggies had a direct pipeline to my bank account and a standing order to drain it. I thought my diaper days would never end. Eventually they did and the monetary change went virtually unnoticed. 

  So many nights I would lie beside my child to help them fall asleep and I too would end up visiting slumber town. During the night I would awake with a stiff neck and sore back and move to my bed. 

 Then there were the two a.m. visitors who tapped my shoulder until I awoke and said, “Mommy I’m scared”.   I would pull them into bed with me and bear the brunt of the wayward elbow to my chest, the arm across my head and the stray foot to my stomach.  When morning would arrive I would sneak out of bed exhausted from a night of little sleep. On occasion I would steal a few moments to marvel at their tiny cusped lips, their chest slowly rising and falling with each breath and their dimpled hands wrapped around their favorite stuffed animal.  And somehow those times ended too.

  As the years passed we moved onto bigger things.  Athletic competitions and academic pursuits consumed our lives.  I developed a severe case of bleacher butt from sitting in the stands.  We spent many a weekend on the road and most weeknights hurrying from one activity or school function. Whatever were my children’s interests, I encouraged them. 

  During those years I forged a kinship with that hamster that runs around on her wheel.  Both of us were in constant motion and neither of us seemed to be reaching our destination, wherever that was supposed to be.  I remember one Sunday afternoon when I was completing my routine of slicing and grilling vegetables to make sandwiches for my daughter’s lunch (she and cold cuts never formed a bond).   I would take an hour or so from my Sunday schedule to grill the vegetables for the week.  One particular Sunday I stood by the grill turning the vegetables to get the perfect grill marks and hoping that I did not drop them in between the grill grates. Frustrated and tired I repeated my saying of choice; “When is this ever going to end?”  And you know what? In a blink of an eye the end came. I found that my Sunday’s no longer required vegetable grilling duties.   

  My parent’s advice began whispering to me “Be careful what you wish for because you just might get it.” 

   This summer has been different in many ways. Mother Nature decided to scale back on those hot and hazy days. Crazy and carefree times have been in short supply.  Summer in my family has been about milestones and movement.

  It began with my daughter finishing a long term substitute teaching job in her college town. With an expiring apartment lease in one town and a dream of settling in another she moved her belongings into a storage unit and headed off to her camp counseling job for the season.  In the midst of her summer position she interviewed for and secured a teaching job in the area of Virginia that she longed to be.  Instantly I became an apartment hunter and logistics specialist.  Thankfully, I Successfully completed my assignments.  My daughter finished her camp obligations on the 11^th of August and was settled and ready to begin her teacher training eight hours south of our New York home on the 14^th.  Whew!

  June my son graduated from high school. He attended his college orientation the first week of July.  My focus turned to graduation party planning, FAFSA forms and shopping for dorm room and school supplies.  Somehow from the clearness of the summer days and the coolness of the nights we reached the end of August.   Tomorrow is move in college move in day.

 

 

   Shortly the calendar will turn and we will be in the month of September. The big yellow school busses will resume their routes through the neighborhood.  For the first year in many I will not have a child boarding them. They have moved on.  Each is readying to write their own story and live into their reality.  I find myself wishing that I could pin that manila tag to them, the one that contains the instructions as to how to return them to me.  But I can’t. 

  Now I wear a tag but it is not visible.  It is etched upon my heart. The routing instructions have not changed from the ones that were printed on the tag and pinned to their shirts so many years ago.  No matter where their lives take them I trust that they know “home” is merely a thought away. My heart is always ready to meet them and my arms remain open and yearn to embrace them.