As the days of childhood get shorter
My son missed almost all of the last month of school because I was teaching a class in Italy, and he of course went along with me and my wife. Despite the many temptations of Rome, he was eager to get back to school for the last week. I’m sure travel fatigue played a large role, as well as the counterintuitive truth that there is, in fact, a limit to how much pizza and gelato you can eat.
When he got off the bus on that last Friday, he was uncharacteristically subdued. On most days, he bounces off, singing some song he and his friend made up, or chattering about some exciting new Pokémon fact he learned. This day, though, he looked wilted. I knew that part of his depression was a delayed reaction to almost 10 hours in an airplane followed by two in a car compounded by a six-hour time change, but it was more than just travel fatigue and jet lag.
I was always ecstatic about the end of the school year, with summer vacation stretching ahead for what felt like eons and no thoughts about how bored I would get by mid-July bothering me. My son loves school and his teacher, and knowing that he’s done with Mr. Mo’s class forever made him sad.
Later that weekend, my wife stood behind him as he was looking in the bathroom mirror and noticed how tall he is getting. He comes up to her shoulders now, and every parent knows the oxymoronic mix of pride and despair that strikes when their kids show those obvious signs of growing up.
My son again shows that he has very different ideas than I did as a kid by being sad about his growth. I loved it when I was finally taller than my mother (somewhere around sixth or seventh grade), but my son dreads this day for himself. One day I called him a “big kid,” and the phrase almost made him cry. He doesn’t want to grow up and become a big kid. He likes being a little kid (and on many days when grownup responsibilities weigh me down, I completely understand). For some reason, he fears that if he grows up we won’t love him any more. We do our best to reassure him that he will always be our kid even when he’s tall and old, but that only does so much.
He really is afraid of transitions, I think. I see this in my students, too, especially in the seniors as they prepare for graduation.
My students’ fears are more realistic than my son’s fear that his height and age determine his parents’ love. They worry about getting jobs and paying off student loans. They worry that the world is falling apart, and they may not be wrong — we grownups have not done a terrific job keeping the world in good condition before we pass it on to them.
I’m writing this a couple of days after the summer solstice, one of those cosmic moments of transition. This day has always seemed a little sad to me because it marks the time of year when the days start getting shorter and we start that long, slow march into winter’s darkness. I think for my son and my students, the future can look the same way: a steady downhill roll.
As one of the supposed grownups, I have to remind myself that part of my job is providing some light, love, and support to everyone crossing those frightening boundaries into the future.