A few weeks ago, I arrived at my Starbucks at five in the morning to find it had been invaded by clusters of strange beings, out of bed before the crack of dawn yet without so much as a dark circle under an eye. They all looked fit and energetic in their coordinated workout outfits.At first I thought they were high school girls up a little early for their graduation rehearsal. Unlikely, but then again, life is full of surprises.
Not high school girls, as it turned out, but mothers, full blown women who looked way too young to have borne children, much less raise them. I sat a table away, not meaning to eavesdrop -- well, maybe just a little -- but unable to shut out the din of their lively chatter. Carpools, dance recitals, getting through the gap days between school and camp. All the stuff that once seemed to swallow up my days and my energy, the stuff that added up to a royal pain in the ass. I wondered what they were doing up and out so early.
This morning, my youngest child will wake up, for the first time, in a college dorm room. We are here for two days of Orientation. The second bed in my hotel room taunts me with its emptiness. Only 24 hours earlier, I had glanced over to see her tousled hair spread over her face, the rest of her tangled up in a mess of twisted sheets. She will register for classes today. I will only know what she registers for if I remember to ask. I won't know (or care, really) about the days or the times, and I won't be driving her there. I won't be filling any more crisp brown paper bags with peanut butter and banana sandwiches and Skinny Pop and fat chocolate chip cookies and honey crisp apples. The dog will be disappointed and confused. I will just be confused. Disoriented, I suppose, for a while.
The last few weeks have been filled with "lasts." Her last high school sporting event, her last high school class, her last high school dance, her last upload into her Facebook senior year album. She turned eighteen. Birthday cards and gift bags filled with candy and empty gift boxes and certificates and pins and awards and, yes, a diploma still lay scattered atop our dining room table. Her older sister took days off from work to join in the celebrations. Her older brother, too far away to be here, wrote her what she described as the most beautiful and eloquent letter of love and advice. Significantly older than their little sister, these siblings offer a unique perspective. They are old enough to get the significance of the day, and they are young enough to get the significance of the day. The memories of what comes next -- good, bad, and ugly -- are still fresh in their mind.
The young moms, as it turns out, were coming in shifts to Starbucks while others held their places in a line of folding chairs that stretched around the block by the dance studio their children attend. They were registering for fall dance classes, hoping they had not blown the chance to get their daughters (and the occasional son) into the right class at the right time with the right friends. So complicated. So stressful. Such a royal pain in the ass. They seemed downright giddy, though, and I felt a small pang of nostalgic envy. For at least another few years, they will always know where those children are. For the next few years, at best, I will know (with at least a fair amount of certainty, most of the time) what city my youngest child is in. Beyond that, I will not have a clue.
Just before we moved a few months ago, I came across my daughter's old jazz shoes. For a few moments, I held onto them, running my fingers over the smooth leather, turning them over in my hands, marveling at how tiny they were. Reluctantly, I let them go. I gave them to a little girl whose family cannot afford such small luxuries.
I hope my daughter gets into the classes she wants. I wish I could help, but, like most things, it's out of my hands.
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