I opened the flier in Sam's backpack and shuddered a little when I read it: Sam's preschool graduation was scheduled for the end of May. Judge me if you must, but I dreaded the thought of watching a gaggle of wiggly, overtired hyper 4-and-5 year olds march across a stage in a pseudo-coming of age ceremony. At best, I imagined I'd clap with one hand while bouncing a crabby infant as Sam received his diploma. At worst...well, I imagined it would be something a tad more chaotic than herding cats.
I considered skipping it all together and just taking Sam out for ice cream instead. (Again, judge me if you must). But, Sam wanted to go and said they'd been practicing some special songs and so, we made plans to go.
Since organization is not our forte, we are always the last parents to know any important details. This is not the fault of our daycare, but rather a sign of our inability to unpack our children's backpacks and read through all the handouts that get sent home. (I don't know why this task is so difficult to work into our daily routine, but it is...and our failure to perform this task bites us in the ass regularly).
Anyway, the day of graduation, I happened upon a handout stating that failure to return my child's cap and gown would cause the preschool to charge my account $30. What cap and gown? Where would I pick it up? Was I supposed to order it? All in a tizzy, I texted Teacher Sasha who pointed me in the right direction. Once that got all settled down, I felt relieved that I wouldn't have to rush home from work, feed kids AND wrestle Sam into dress clothes before rushing off to graduation.
The kids filed out on stage as a wiggly mass of smiling, waving energy with every third kid (usually a boy...you know how that goes) knocking over the Good Luck archway as they passed through. I couldn't help but laugh.
And then the singing started...and I was transformed.
There was Sam, singing along with his classmates, following his teacher's instructions and trying to wave at us on the sly. Suddenly, I got it. I got it. Finishing preschool really was a rite of passage.
Oh, goodness. I am a hormonal mess of motherhood.