It's that time of year again. Almost daily, my mailbox brings me a cleverly designed photo card with a scripted invitation to that giant curve in the road of life - high school graduation.
One small card, all four faces filled with photos, shares, at a glance, 18-years of the embarking teen's life.
Chubby baby cheeks give way to pre-school cuteness followed by sports shots, county fair, FFA and then model-perfect poses of beauty that only a teen can achieve.
At homes everywhere, there is a teen whose head is spinning with a calendar full of lasts - last prom, last classes, last finals, last high school rodeo, last look at a school bus twice a day.
Moms are sorting clothes, sorting hours in the day, making lists and more lists.
She is filling every corner of her heart with busy in an effort to make those last high school memories great ones.
And maybe, if she stuffs and pokes and pushes down hard enough, she can ignore, for a little longer, the tug of loneliness that is trying to take over.
Her baby is leaving home. Her baby isn't hers anymore. Her baby, whether it's the first one to leave or the last, will never again need her like he or she has the last 18 years.
That curve in the road of life isn't just for the graduating teen. It's for the family who has been a unit of a certain size in a certain way for a certain number of years. Now it will all change.
It might not all happen right after the caps and gowns are returned and the graduation party is behind them. After all, there is still summer and plenty to do at home and with assorted activities.
But the ticking clock will seem to pick up speed and volume as June and July slip by to the inevitable first day of college classes.
If this is the first one to go, it's horribly hard, as Mom makes her way through unfamiliar territory, dreading what she can't see or plan for ahead.
If this is the last one to go, it's horribly hard as Mom knows the road, but also knows how it drops off at the end.
Graduation seems to signify some right of passage for a teen that says, "Okay Mom, I've got it handled now."
Wasn't it just last week he was checking daily in the mirror to see if he had enough facial hair to justify shaving? He was almost willing it grow overnight, like that would mean he was a little tougher and more "mature."
Is this the same kid, who during "the talk," became mortified when the word hormone was used because he had it confused with hemorrhoids and didn't want to talk about anything having to do with his butt. Somehow, a raging hemorrhoid is not a good explanation for much of anything.
Wasn't it just last week she was wearing frosted bubblegum lip-gloss, plastic beaded
bracelets and wanting her ears pierced? Her firsts were mascara, dates, a bra and trying to figure out just what it was that was supposed to make thong underwear fun.
Now she has her own car and spends every spare minute planning her own apartment and a life completely free of her perceptions of her mother's nagging. It will be many years before she realizes how much she is her mom.
In the meantime, contrary to what graduates think is going to happen, moms don't resign their post that easily. Every now and then I have to show my AARP card to my mother to remind her, "I got it handled, Mom."
Julie has lived through this twice, with one more to go, sometime after he starts shaving. Visit Julie’s website at www.julie-carter.com
