I’ve loved your photos. Proud parents beaming alongside their high school senior bedecked in their cap & gown, diploma clutched to their chest. I’ve scanned the faces of these students, looking for a glimpse of the elementary school classmate, the Girl Scout from my troop, the middle school ride or die who spent hours peddling back & forth on bikes between my house & theirs with my Second Kid.
I have felt my heart almost burst from my chest with pride when I received a ticket to the graduation of a child who was so much a part of our lives from ages four to eight until her Navy family was transferred to Virginia. If I could find a way to halt my current responsibilites & make that oh so familiar drive to watch her walk the stage of Kempsville High School in Virginia Beach, I would. I hope she knows our trio is with her in spirit.
My Second Kid graduated high school this year, too. And chose not to walk.
I wasn’t surprised. High school was not the experience they were expecting. Oh, Freshman year started out just fine. Enrolled in the regional technical school, they tried to commit to several shops but ultimately nothing struck them as their “thing.” About November of Sophomore year, they asked to move to the city high school.
This is not an impulsive teenager. Anything they bring for discussion has already been looked at from every angle and considered thoroughly before coming to me with it. We made the arrangements to withdraw from the technical school & enroll in the public high school. It was declared that the rest of Sophomore year would be dedicated to finding their way around the school & reconnecting with the crew from middle school. Junior year… Oh, Junior year is when they would branch out & put their talents to work in theater club, band, track…
Four months later the world ground to a halt.
Having barely figured out where the bathrooms at the new school were located, we were suddenly setting up workstations around the house. 150 feet of cable snaked its way up the stairs into the sunroom so I could connect to my workplace. Dining room, kitchen & bedrooms were set up as workstations depending on the needs of the day.
Then the “Missing Assignments” emails came. Every Friday, we would get the list – two missing assignments… three… six… seven. There was much wailing & gnashing of teeth. And after two years of frustration, tears, cajoling, & fighting, I gave up the fight. We both gave up the fight. This smart, beautiful, talented child of mine just Did. Not. Give. A. Shit about trying to navigate high school through the 12 inch screen of a Chromebook.
Senior year came & school was back in person. (Oh my god, we’re back again! If you didn’t sing that, we can’t be friends.) Senior year limped along with its cafeteria fights, lockdowns, Principals who stood in the halls yelling, “Move with purpose, scholars!” There were texts sent from the guidance office begging me to come get them & bring them home. Being startled awake at 5 am & recognizing that look on my kid’s face that said there was no way they were going to school that day. Helen at the front office got to know me well & we started to refer to it as being “released” – like prison – instead of “dismissed.”
I tried to trust that senior year wouldn’t have to be repeated. I tried not to interfere, telling myself that if my kid failed it wasn’t the end of the world. I naively thought it would all finally end with that Friday night at the stadium, clutching umbrellas as rain threatened, watching our scholar cross the stage.
But they chose not to walk. They chose not to “move with purpose” across the stage & shake the hand of the principal.
It’s a little strange, not having this parent moment of high school graduation. Seeing all the photos of friends & their graduates tugged at me. But I have learned the most valuable of lessons. I’ve learned not to second guess their decisions.
I have learned to let them fly.
The diploma was picked up three days after the ceremony. And they begrudgingly agreed to a family cookout after several complaints by grand parents.
I don’t have photos of us together, bedecked in their cap & gown. And I don’t know what’s next for my former scholar.
But I know they’re forging their own path.
I know they’ll be okay.
Crud My Kids Say 