“That’s my mom!”
With that triumphant announcement, a little boy jumped out of the line of students filing past me, his bright blue eyes lit up like the sun as he smiled at me. He ran over and hugged me fiercely before rejoining his classmates as they walked to the lunchroom. One more time he called out “That’s my mom” with pride in his voice, just to make sure everyone knew.
My son.
I had come to the school for a meeting, and I happened to arrive as his class was going to lunch. As the moment – and the line – passed, I smiled at the 20 or so kids walking together, chatting and joking. They were all about 6 or 7 years old, forming friendships that would last throughout their time in school together. I watched as they turned the corner and the line vanished from view, with the echoes of their voices remaining as they filed off to their next activity.
That’s my mom.
As I watched the line disappear around the corner, I suddenly saw all four of my children there instead, walking down the hall from childhood to adulthood. As they neared the end of the hall the older ones each veered off into their own doors, which opened to an adventure just for them. How easy it is to forget to be sad when you still have little ones walking in that line.
But the line always comes to an end at a doorway that mom can only stand at and wave. Then the hallway came back into focus as I realized that this was my youngest, the last in line.
A few years later we hit the teen years, and there were some changes. The biggest one was that I discovered that dropping him off where people could *actually see me* was MORTIFYING. I’d like to say I accepted this with grace, but the truth is I probably could have reacted slightly better. It turns out that informing your 14-year-old that you aren’t embarrassing does not, in fact, improve the situation. You would think that after 3 other children I would have already known this, but sometimes selective amnesia hits. We adjusted, though. And every evening we sat to watch a show, a tradition I’ve shared with all of my kids either collectively or one on one.
It’s now been a few more years, and he will be a senior this fall. He no longer needs me to enter the witness protection program to drop him off, so that’s good. But he also has a car and a license, so my presence isn’t quite as needed. Still, he tells me about his day and shares his thoughts and dreams with me. That’s a privilege I greatly value, even if he keeps talking about leaving for college next year, a fact that I’m studiously trying to ignore. If I don’t acknowledge it, it won’t happen, right?
Right?
Last weekend he played piano at a local church as a guest artist. I showed up early to get a good spot, and at the door he was standing a little inside, past the ushers. As I was being greeted, he walked closer. Without thinking, I pointed at him, broke into a grin, and announced “That’s my son!”
That’s my son.
And his blue eyes lit up like the sun as he smiled at me.
