Saying Goodbye

A lot of days are the pretty much the same. You wake up, grab a bite of breakfast, and get started with the day’s tasks, knowing that when you’re done you’ll lay back down between the sheets and start the whole process over again in the morning. Sometimes it seems like that’s all your life is … a giant task list to be performed.

Sometimes there are days in your life that change you.

Today was one of those days.

Today I sat in my car and watched my son scamper into elementary school. We’d sat in the car with a bag of donuts and had what we always call ‘Breakfast Club’, and when the time came I rolled it forward, stopped in my appointed spot, and told him it was time. I’ve probably done the same thing hundreds of times between two boys. But today was different.

Today was the last time it will happen for me in my life. We no longer have an elementary-aged child in our home.

We moved our oldest son from pre-school to that elementary school for kindergarten in August of 2001. For a little perspective, 1 and 2 World Trade Center in Manhattan were still standing when we walked out of there that day, My Lovely Bride in tears. The child I watched slam my car door shut a few hours ago was just 2 when we began entrusting our most prized possessions, one after the other, to the people ... teachers, administrators, lunch ladies, janitors ... who, for all intents and purposes, are that school.

Over our nine-year relationship with that building and the people in it, two teachers had the experience (and I’m sure it was an experience) of teaching both of our boys. One teacher actually had taught 4th Grade to both Yours Truly and My Lovely Bride. Then, as fate would have it, she ended up teaching 4th Grade to one of our sons before her retirement. We’ve watched one Principal retire, to be replaced by the sitting Assistant Principal. There was comfort there. One person had been in administration continuously for our entire relationship with the school.

Those are the facts. Facts are cold. Facts are hard. Facts are immutable. But facts aren’t what make today the event that it is.

The child who started our relationship with that school in 2001 will be a freshman in high school when school starts back. The child who yelled, “Love ya, Dad!” on his way inside today will begin the trek towards ‘teen’ when the bell next rings for him.

Two doors are closing today. My mind’s eye sees the oldest holding the middle school door open for the youngest. “Here, dude … take my place. I’m moving on.”.

We have no more children in our home. We now have two young men.

That realization changes a man.