Rites of Passage

My oldest daughter, Tara, graduates from high school in about a month. Life passages like this are tough on parents. I was fighting back tears when each of the kids "graduated" from fifth grade, so I've always known high school would be tough.

As I was waiting for the girls after the choir/band thing at school recently, it occurred to me that this would be the last time I would come to see Tara in a high school production, and the tears began to sting my eyes. As it turned out, it wouldn't be the last thing, so the tears were for naught!

They aren't really happy tears, and they aren't really sad tears ... they're a combination of joy and hope ... and a little fear. It's like when you drop them off for Kindergarten and then you cry all the way to work for a week. You can't be there to protect them. You can't be there to guide them. You know they're going to get their feelings hurt at times. You know they are going to be afraid at times. You know they're going to wish you were there at times ... and you can't be. But, you also know they need to be at school, not only for the academics, but for the social and coping skills they will never develop if Mom is always hovering over them.

Knowing this, however, doesn't make it any easier. It's gut-wrenching. Even though you know you're not, you feel like you're abandoning them. They are so excited they can't see the turmoil and fear percolating inside you. After a kiss and a hug, they happily run off, leaving you standing there with your heart bleeding ... wishing you had just one more day, one more week, one more year to keep them carefree and innocent.

As Tara stands on the doorstep of adulthood, the choices she makes will have life-long consequences. I can guide her steps, and I can offer advice, but the decisions ultimately belong to her. I trust her. She's a good girl, but deep inside, she's still that little baby I gave birth to eighteen years ago ... the one I rocked to sleep and tried to coax meat baby food down by hiding it under applesauce (that didn't work ... she wouldn't even eat applesauce for a while after that!) ... and the desire to keep her close and safe and protected is as strong now as it was the first time I held her.

When I think of Tara, the first thing that comes to mind is when she was about four years old. She and Jana were playing something (I can't remember what), but since Jana is two years younger, she had a hard time following the rules Tara imposed ... rules Tara made up as she went, so there wasn't necessarily a strict set of rules for poor little Jannie to follow! Fed up with Jana's insubordination, Tara put her hands on her hips and chastised her ... "I've told you three times already. Are you blind?!"

I remember the time she asked if a friend could sleep over. I told her I'd call so-and-so's mom and see if she could spend the night. Tara got a strange look on her face and asked "Who's her mom gonna sleep with ... me or you?"

I remember Tara in the backyard at our old house, sitting in the grass near the fence. The neighbors dog, Rotten, cuddled up on the other side, as close as she could get to Tara. Tara would sit it out there with Rotten for hours, reading to the dog as she petted her through the fence.

I remember standing at the back door, watching Tara swing ... finally able to swing all by herself ... singing whatever came to mind, always at the top of her lungs. I remember her jumping rope on the sidewalk, riding her big wheel, blowing bubbles.

As emotional as I get with the little accomplishments and rites of passage that the kids have gone through, I know Tara's high school graduation will be the hardest ... so far. Each milestone they pass ... their first birthday, going to pre-school, going to Kindergarten, middle school, etc., is bittersweet. I loved the kids being babies. I loved being able to eat Little Debbie cakes while holding them and they had no idea!!

On their first birthday, you're so happy that they're becoming more independent, that they can play with you, and entertain themselves for a short time ... but a part of you aches, knowing that little baby who wanted nothing more than to lay peacefully in your arms is gone forever. I loved my kids at every age and stage of development, but I mourned the years that were gone ... the ones I'd never have again.

As I watch Tara graduate, I will be filled with pride, and joy, and happiness. And I'll be filled with that same bittersweet ache that my baby is that much closer to being grown and gone. I know that's what a parent is supposed to do. You're supposed to raise them to be able to take care of themselves and not need you anymore. I know kids always need their parents, but it's a different kind of need. My dad died 22 years ago, and my moms been gone for 13 years ... I haven't had the luxury of parents for so long I can hardly remember having them. I miss them ... and I need them.

I'm sure Tara considers herself quite capable ... I know I did when I was her age ... but for right now, she does still need me. This past February she wanted to make cupcakes for her boyfriend for Valentines Day. She called me in a panic. "Mom, I need to put the cupcakes in the oven. How long do I leave them in?"

Maybe I should know off the top of my head, but I didn't. "I don't know, honey, look on the box."

"I can't!!" Her voice was literally dripping with hysteria.

She'd obviously thrown the box away, but I had a solution ... Mom to the rescue! "Get the box out of the trash and see what it says."

"Mom," she replied (and I could actually hear her rolling her eyes), "I couldn't find any cupcake mix, so I had to buy cake mix!"

Okay ... I see the problem. It's (as we like to say in the computer field) ... "Insufficient User Resource"!!

Perhaps I shouldn't worry so much about the kids growing up and not needing me!!

I know I will cry throughout the entire commencement ceremony. All I have to do is think or even talk about it and I get choked up. As hard as it will be for me to watch the kids graduate, it will be nothing compared to when they get married! I will have to be sedated for that! I'll sit in the front row at the church, looking stunning in my new Mother-of-the-Bride dress ... semi-comatose and drooling.

Children are a part of their parents, literally and figuratively. I know watching them walk out the door for the "last" time will be sheer agony ... akin to losing a limb. The loss might be something you grow accustomed to, but you're always aware that something (someone) is missing.

If anyone ever invents a time machine, life on Earth will cease to exist; parents will never let their kids grow up to procreate. I wouldn't ... Dave would stay baby Davy ... a fat, happy, cuddly baby, always ready to play. Jannie would be perpetually four, making me plastic food and coffee in her Little Tikes kitchen while I babysit her dolls. And Tara would always be eight ... spending her days swinging, singing, having tea parties with her cat, and reading to the neighbors' dog.

When the kids were little, they had no idea how I was crumbling inside under the weight of my "burden", or how overwhelmed I was at raising three young children all alone. All they knew were picnics and playgrounds. They knew popsicles and a sprinkler on a hot summer day. They knew bike rides and walks. They knew tickle-fights and hugs and kisses. They knew colorful band-aids on their boo-boo's, a bedtime story, and getting rocked to sleep. They didn't know we were poor ... they felt safe and loved ... and they were happy. That's all kids really need ... time and love. And cookies.

Actually, everyone needs cookies!

Tara came to my room last night to talk to me. She lay on my bed, wearing a t-shirt and capris, and looking every inch a high school kid. She'll be nineteen at the end of summer ... with twenty just around the corner ... and was giggling about how close she is to not being a teenager anymore.

"I'll be a woman," she said, laughing and flipping her hair.

"Actually, you're a woman, now," I told her, with a lump in my throat. "Do you feel like a woman?" I asked.

"No," she said, still giggling, smiling that beautiful smile of hers.

"Good," I thought as I took her in my arms and hugged her.

I am so proud of Tara. She's sweet and beautiful and honest and dependable and trustworthy. And there's something indefinably special about her. She reminds me of the movie "Shallow Hal" after the spell was cast on him ... she truly does see people for who they are on the inside, not what they look like on the outside. She's a remarkable girl (woman) and I'm eternally grateful God gave her to me.

She's not only my daughter, she's my friend. I love the "woman" Tara has become ... but I will always miss the little girl she used to be.

Tara may be all grown up now ... but she still needs love.

And cookies ... Tara still needs cookies :)

Root Beer

I’ve never been a fan of root beer. I wasn’t aware it even existed until I was in Kindergarten. All the tables in my Kindergarten room had a nursery rhyme name. I sat at the “Jack & Jill” table, presumably because my name is Jackie. I say that because my older sister, Jill, also had the dubious honor of sitting at the table of her namesake. That has nothing to do with my root beer story ... I threw that one in for free!

Yes, my name is Jackie and my next oldest sibling is named Jill ... and kids seem to pick up on that pretty fast. I’m just glad my name wasn’t George (who kissed the girls and made them cry), or Peter (the pumpkin eater). And, in all reality, it could have been worse ... much worse. I could have been a boy ... and I was supposed to be a boy. By the time I was born, they had two boys and three girls. I guess they wanted to even things out, you know, Brady Bunch style ... except The Brady Bunch hadn’t been conceived yet. And, besides that, we weren’t born in the proper boy/girl/boy/girl Brady Bunch order, either. 

Anyway, they wanted a boy, so much so that they didn’t have a girls name picked out. They were going to name me John, but they were going to call me Jack. How’s THAT for cruel? (I thank God every day that I wasn’t born a boy!) So, when I popped out ... a girl ... and with no name other than John/Jack to choose from (apparently it had to be some derivation of them), I became Jacquelyn. This was at the height of the Kennedy fame. My mother couldn’t stand Jacqueline Kennedy (she never said why and I never asked), but she specifically spelled my name differently so that people didn’t think I was named after her. 

I guess Mama showed her, huh?!

I didn’t mind the Jack and Jill stuff, but my sister Jill STILL throws a temper tantrum if you so much as hum a few bars of that annoying little tune! Being the mischievous little sister that I am, I sometimes do ... just for the perverse pleasure of watching a grown woman throw a tantrum like a child! That has nothing to do with the root beer story, either!

Okay, back to root beer and Kindergarten. 

Mrs. Holtz was my teacher and I was scared to death of her. She wasn’t like the sweet, young, energetic teachers on those wholesome family sit-coms ... the ones who love their students so much that you can almost see little hearts floating out of them. Quite the contrary. Given the sheer volume of wrinkles on that decrepit old woman, I suspect that Mrs. Holtz had quite possibly come over on the Mayflower ... as an adult. And although there is no way to know with any certainly ... and keep in mind I’m making this assumption without the benefit of any scientific data ... but I think she might have actually been allergic to children! She certainly acted like it! I don’t think I ever saw her smile or display any emotion that even looked even remotely pleasurable. 

She had several helpers in the room with her, but I can’t recall any of their names. The asstants were always really nice, but I never paid much attention to them ... I was too busy keeping my eye out for Mrs. Holtz ... who was keeping her eye out for misbehaving children! I was terribly worried about being punished for doing something I wasn’t supposed to do even though I’d never been told I couldn’t do it. Back then, I guess, they must have just assumed we knew already the rules ... like whether or not we could go to the bathroom with our painting jacket on. Quite frankly, I had no idea what the rules were.

I was painfully shy, and learned the rules of acceptability by watching the other children to see what they got in trouble for. I’d seen one of the helpers give a kid permission to go to the bathroom with their painting jacket on, only to see that kid to get in trouble from Mrs. Holtz when they came out of the bathroom with their painting jacket on! Another time a kid got in trouble for taking her painting jacket off before going to the bathroom. 

Can we or can we NOT go to the bathroom with our painting jacket on?! 

I didn’t know! (I still don’t know!) 

It was a very confusing time for me. Mrs. Holtz could have cleared up the whole perplexing issue if I’d just had the courage to ask her ... but, sadly, I was never brave enough.

So anyway, I’m sitting at the Jack & Jill table, quiet as a church mouse, when the helpers come by with tiny little Dixie cups (like you have in the bathroom to rinse after brushing). One helper gave us a cup, and another came behind her and poured Double Cola from a bottle. At least, I thought it was Double Cola. It was dark brown and bubbley. 

”Yea! Coke!!” I thought happily. At home, us kids only got half a soda every Friday night after Mama came back from the grocery story. We got a whole coke when The Wizard of Oz or Cinderella came on tv ... but that only happened once a year. Soda for no reason was a treat! I had no idea what the special occasion was that merited the honor of having soda pop in the middle of the week, but I didn’t care!

I took a huge drink ... and quickly realized I’d make a collosal mistake! What in the world was this stuff, I wondered? My friend Rocky would know, but she was on the other side of the room at the Mary Had A Little Lamb table! 

Help!

There was NO way I could swallow it. None. Zero. Zip. Zilch. Nada. I had no idea what was in my mouth, but I knew one thing for certain ... it was not coke and it was most certainly not a treat! Unable to hold it in my mouth any longer, and getting queasy at the thought of swallowing it, I did the only thing I could do ... I spit it back into the cup.

And then the panic set in.

At home, if you didn’t want what was set in front of you, well then, you went hungry. But I didn’t know the rules at school!! Were you expected to eat or drink whatever they set before you? On tv they did, but this was real life ... were the rules the same? I didn’t know! My mind was racing. What was I going to do? If they came back around and saw that I hadn’t drunk it, I just knew I’d get in trouble! I had to get rid of the stuff ... but how? ... and where? I didn’t know if I was allowed to get up and go to the bathroom during snack time (that scenario had yet to present itself). And, even if that was allowed, would I get in trouble for taking my cup with me? 

Would somebody PLEASE tell me the rules?! 

That’s when it hit me. There was only one way to get rid of it. I knew what I had to do.

I poured it under the table.

Setting the now empty cup on the Jack & Jill table, I felt the enormous burden of my predicament being lifted off my tiny, fragile shoulders. There, I sighed with relief, it’s over now. I watched in disgust as my classmates downed their glasses of that whatever-it-was then lick their lips. Despite this nauseating display, I was smiling inside, and quite pleased with my ingenuity and problem-solving skills!

One of the helpers made her way to our table. Oh, no! Had she seen me? What would be my fate? She was smiling ... that was a good sign, right? She noticed my empty cup. ”Oh, you drank it all! Here’s some more,” she said, reaching for my cup. 

“No, thank you,” I said politely. "I don’t want anymore.”

”Oh, don’t be silly!" she said, filling my cup. "We’ve got plenty!” 

I wanted to cry! With my heart racing, and with no other options, I waited for her to leave and reached for the cup ... and with trembling hands, I dumped the second glass under the table.

I don’t know how many times she came by and filled my cup. I tried to tell her I didn’t want any, but she kept filling it up! ”You must really like this, huh?!” she said on more than one occasion.

My stomach was really beginning to hurt. When they realized what I had done ... and they would ... what would they do to me? I’d never gotten away with anything in my entire life. I was going to get in BIG trouble. It would probably go on my permanent record and haunt me for the rest of my life. Could I get into the college of my choice with this scarlet letter on my chest? Would this one foolish act lead to a lifetime of dead-end, menial, minimum wage jobs? My mind was reeling with the ramifications of what this one act of defiance would have on my entire life!

I sunk further and further into despair with every glass I poured out. I sat at the Jack & Jill table, mulling over my fate, and the bright future I had undoubtedly ruined. My spirit sunk to an all-time low. I was going to get yelled at in front of the entire class. But I was a good girl! I never got in trouble at school! I nearly passed out from the fear. I was literally beginning to lose consciousness when the bell rang, signaling for us to line up by the door.

I summoned all my strength, prayed my wobblely legs would hold my weight, and raced to join the line of children in an effort to get out of that room as quickly as possible. They would surely discover what I had done. There were only six kids at the Jack & Jill table ... and all the root beer was in front of one chair ... Jackie’s chair. I was sure to be caught. But, already excelling in procrastination despite my tender age, I knew I could worry about that tomorrow.

I slept fitfully that night, and came to school the next afternoon absolutely terrified, and fully prepared for whatever punishment would be meted out, and ... nothing. Not a word! No one said anything about it. As far as I could tell, my Jack & Jill table-mates were oblivious to the fact that there was a criminal in their midst. No one treated me any differently. No one looked at me with a disapproving frown or a head-shaking ”I’m very disappointed in you” look on their face.

Dare I dream? Could it be true? Was I really going to get away with it?

As the day wore on, the truth began to sink in ... they didn’t know! I wasn’t going to be punished! I wasn’t going to be ostracized from society! This wouldn’t be an albatross around my neck for the rest of my life!

My heart felt lighter and I felt years younger when I left school that day. I felt like the Grinch after the true meaning of Christmas came through ... when his heart didn’t feel quite so tight and he whizzed with his load through the bright morning light!

Hallelujah!! It was true! I had gotten away with it! 

That was, however, pretty much the first, and last, thing I’ve ever gotten away with. I’ve not only gotten caught for everything I ever did, I got caught ... and punished ... for everything my sister Jill ever did!! But, that’s fodder for another blog and it has nothing to do with my root beer story!