At Lasts

When you’re a parent, you can’t necessarily know when the last last will occur. As our children develop and grow, parents mark firsts–your joy at the sound of his first baby belly laugh, the painful eruption of his first tooth and later its subsequent loss, his wobbly first steps, his first day of kindergarten, first home run. . . What you can’t recognize and acknowledge in real time are the lasts–I bet you don’t know exactly when it was the last time your child needed to be pushed in a stroller. You probably didn’t write down the last time you changed your child’s diaper or the last time you gave them a bath or the last time they cried when you left them with the babysitter.

I know that my kid started his last baseball game Friday night. I know that my last-ever baseball pants re-whitening miracle comes May 28.

Photo credit to Julio Cruz

My younger son graduates high school Wednesday. To say I am proud of his effort these last few months, let alone his first 3.75 years of high school would be underselling things. His freshman year was 100% virtual; he did not meet a single new friend freshman year because he did not have the privilege of attending school for even one single day. He showed up every single class period, camera on, each and every day and earned a perfect GPA. That was one heck of a pandemic nightmare introduction into high school back then. Now? Not only is his last baseball season in full swing (ba-dum-tsssss), which means 3-4 games per week, but he had also resumed his summer job the first week in April. He applied and was accepted into three universities and struggled mightily with his decision about which college he’d call home. He was also preparing to take 16 IB examinations, each exam ranging in length between 1 hour, 15 minutes and 2 hours, 45 minutes, to complete his International Baccalaureate diploma AND still attending classes, because, well, he’s a high school student and they take attendance. Throw prom into the mix with the girlfriend he’s crazy about and every single thing is top priority for him.

Except obviously that can’t be true–but everything surely felt like it should rate top billing. He deserves more than the polite smattering applause he’ll get as he crosses the stage Wednesday, and yes, when you’re waaaaay at the end of the alphabet, very few in the audience maintain the stamina/interest to continue clapping for the “last names starting with V-Z” crowd. My child deserves a standing ovation and if you are a parent who thinks I’m bragging, you’re damn right I am. And YOU better have felt the same about your kid and bragged about them too. What these kids endure, whether they survive or thrive in high school, it’s not like it was for us, not in the age of social media. And it wasn’t easy for us, was it? Whether your kid is the 1.7 GPA kid who scraped and clawed to somehow make it out alive or the academic genius offered seventeen free rides across the Ivy League and Big Ten, you stand up and your clap til your hands sting.

But as I was saying, lasts. . .

Some years ago, when he still played travel baseball, our late hotel reservation meant my son and I got the hotel’s last available room. We at least had a king size bed, but even at thirteen, my kid was 6′ and slept on a diagonal (still does). Not awesome. As I climbed into bed with him I did have that “last” recognition, thinking this is probably the last time I’d have to sleep in the same bed as my kid.

There’s been a LOT going on his world lately (scroll up to paragraph #3 above for a refresher) and he’s taxed to overload. A particularly unfortunate event occurred, leaving him the victim of harsh words and cruel behavior a few weeks ago. He climbed into my bed with a heavy, heavy heart, needing to offload the experience of his lousy day. I had just nodded off with a book in my hands when he plopped down next to me. He’s neither small nor stealthy, so I pretended I’d been awake all along when he said he wanted to talk.

I’m no one to give advice, but parents, hear me: When your high school aged child wants to talk to you, WAKE UP! Act like it’s the most important conversation of your life, because it IS the most important conversation of your life!

Anyway, my son opened up to me–voicing more concerns, ideas, frustration, questions, and really–just more words than I’d heard him speak to me or anyone in months. After the “unfortunate situation” began to further unravel before resolving, he said that he wished he could just climb into bed between his dad and me then promptly zonked out, out like a light immediately. I knew then that this really was the last, last, last time and my heart felt settled, calm in the knowledge that my giant baby still valued my input and sought solace and comfort from his mom. I’ve written and said a million times that this parenting gig is not for the weak, that the love for your child is the strongest bond known to humankind. It’s one thing to know it, but quite another to be reminded and feel it, in the form of a 6’2″ not-baby who still, on the rarest of occasions, needed his mom. And not just for her next-level baseball uniform laundering skills. I’m a wizard, y’all.

I remember my first son’s first last–when MD took away his ability to climb a rock wall at the adventure gym. I could go my whole life not having to remember that one, friends. Friday was my second son’s last home baseball game. Today was his last exam, the last hour he will ever be a high school student. These are the last weeks he lives with us full time and I know that very last night will do me in before I am able to recognize it as pride at his accomplishments and growth instead of the loss it will feel like as I adjust. Do NOT call me an empty nester. Not yet.

His graduation gown and IB stole are ironed. Mortarboard and tassel ready to be tossed.

I didn’t cry at #1’s graduation because he was so happy and celebratory, I couldn’t help but share in his joy. #2 is bit more contemplative and serious, so we will see how I behave this time. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done in my life, but man, this parenting gig is not for the weak.

Good thing I’m so strong.