His last middle school concert. His last grade school field trips. His last few weeks with the school nurse, who I love and trust unconditionally with Mark's care. His last few weeks in a small, safe school where the entire staff knows and loves him, and where parent involvement makes the school crazy good.
Next week is Mark's last Open House, then his last few days with the music program, which has been so amazing for him, bringing him success and confidence.
And these are all my last few days there, as well...
I know that's the real issue here. Mark could care less about middle school--he's already got one foot out the door. But this place was my constant--a haven, the place I sent Mark and knew he was safe and cared for, and learning a lot.
Mark can't wait to go to high school, and to reap all the benefits it offers. So far, those include a smartphone, a car, a later curfew (or any curfew, because it means I let him out of the house with his friends). I love Mark and his lofty delusions.
I know my feelings are completely normal--timeless and mundane, in fact. Mama Bird tries keeping her baby safe in the nest, while the baby can't wait to fly off. And I get it, he's only moving over to the high school, not around the world, but still...high school is a big place, with four times the kids and all the perils that keep the media in business. (Drugs! Bullies! Peer pressure! Ack!!!)
"You're worrying too much," my friend Edra told me.
"I can't help it," I answered. "I only have four years left with him, then he's off to college. I can't believe it's almost over."
"Oh, please," she snorted, nodding toward Mark shooting hoops in the backyard. "Look at him. You think he's going off to college right away? He's not going anywhere any time soon."
Maybe I should've been insulted, but she's right. He's 14, but he's still a young kid at heart, and barring any miracles or instant maturity infusions, he probably will stay local for a couple years.
Which made me feel better. Well enough, in fact, to enjoy his first last...the concert.
Mark arrived at the school as he usually does, by forgetting something important. This time, it was his tie. He frantically texted me to bring it to him at school.
I looked for him upon arrival, but he wasn't anywhere nearby--not with his friend Sean, not with the other drummers either. Sean finally pointed him out, stuck directly in a circle of girls, a young Casanova laughing and and holding court. (See, my fears are not unfounded. I wished desperately for a moment that he was shy, like his other friends.)
I interrupted him long enough to hand over the tie, then directed him toward the drum set so I could take a few photos before the concert started. He complied--barely--still showing off for the percussion section. He made goofy faces, clowning for the camera to illicit laughs from the drummers.
I smiled sweetly and said, "Give me a nice smile, or Mama's gonna go all crazy and make a scene here in front of everybody!"
I saw a momentary flutter of fear in his eyes, then Mark quickly recovered. He knows I don't toss out idle threats.
This was the best shot I could get out of him:
The concert went well. Mark sat idly for the first few songs, then joined the orchestra on the drum set. He did a great job.
After a few songs, he moved over to the band, where he took up the percussion instruments like the bells and maracas. He shook the maracas and did a silly dance, smiling and acting goofy the whole time. That child does not have one ounce of stage fright in him at all--he lives for the spotlight, and this was his chance.
He also played the kettle drums, snare drum and big bass drum before moving back to the drum set with the jazz band. I just smiled broadly the entire time, so proud of my little drummer boy.
Edra, Kathleen, her husband Juan and I ate our dinner and enjoyed the hot evening and live music. Don't be sad, I reminded myself, and for a few moments, I was not. I did pretty good all the way up until the last song.
That's it, I thought. Good-bye Cubberley. I felt like I was the one moving up, not Mark.
"Let's go," Mark told me, two minutes after the concert ended.
"Don't you have to help clean up?" I asked. Usually, I'm there a good 45 minutes after the show, watching Mark and his friends break down the drum set.
"Eighth graders don't have to clean up," he said.
I nodded. I wasn't ready to go so quickly. I suggested ice cream to celebrate, and luckily, I found some takers.
The concert reminded me how lucky I am, and how grateful I am for so many things: a happy, healthy kid with musical talent, lots of friends, and even some game with the girls. I was grateful for the stability the school offered Mark for so many years, and for the sense of community we both felt there. I was grateful Mark was taking so many positive memories with him, and I was grateful for all the memories I would keep home with me, too.
Including the image of my son rocking out on the maracas...
No comments:
Post a Comment