Graduation was a piece of cake

Graduation is tricky business for an elementary teacher. We are far removed from and often, long-forgotten by, the soon-to-be-embarking-from-our-hallowed-halls adults huddled on the stage, squirming uncomfortably in slippery robes and unbalanced hats perched precariously on heads that are turned to the future while their feet tap nervously as they inch closer towards receiving their boarding passes for their flights out of here. 

I love graduation. I love watching the moms who started out on their knees to catch up tiny toddlers to care and comfort them and, sixteen years later, fall to their knees again, to capture this milestone moment in their hearts and on their cameras. It is as much their achievement as it is their graduate's. 

Graduation is such a monumental moment because it clearly delineates the abrupt shift from child to fledgling adult. The safety net of school is gone. Where you go now...is up to you.

My heart was in my throat as I watched this group in which I had invested a year of my life. They were my first 4th grade as I had been unceremoniously booted from my middle school position. "You wanted her...then you take her," my new administrator had been told; my title exchanged like I was a used car. My Blue Book value was appallingly low. I was NOT happy. My self-esteem, self-respect, and reputation had taken a serious hit. My middle school mentality did not embrace this transfer to the land of sunshine and sparkles. Nine-year-olds are a lot needier than 6th graders and not well-versed in the language of sarcasm. I don't do hugs. And then the Common Core modules struck like a biblical plague. I momentarily considered grabbing the mic at graduation so I could teach these poor kids about the French & Indian War as I hadn't even gotten CLOSE to it their year. Poor dears. 

It was a magical year. 

I loved those kids with a ferocity that floored me. In middle school, moments would pop up when you had to be a mom too. In elementary, you have to balance being an educator and a mom simultaneously...ALL THE TIME.  You are emotionally exhausted every day. 

I squinted in my seat as I watched them...not because of the tears (I'm not crying...YOU'RE crying)...but because I could just make out the ghosts of those children from Room 24. My poet-athlete who wrote an achingly beautiful ode to his father, winning the grand prize of a writing contest. My statuesque student who I urged daily to square up her shoulders and stand tall, walked confidently across the stage. My teacher's kid (who I dreaded)..."I didn't want you," I confided to her later, "and now I don't want to let you go." Smiles, high-fives, and hugs would be sporadically exchanged as they steadily progressed from one grade level to the next. Room 24 would occasionally receive a celebrity visit noted with applause, candy, and an invitation to sit in the "Multiplication License Chair." My Field Day shirts were designed, created, and produced by one of my graduating seniors. I took my last FFA selfie with one of my honeys as we chronicled her and her horse, Pete's, appearance throughout that annual event.  Momentos of that first year still decorate my classroom:  a watercolor elephant on the wall, an animatronic dancing dog, a dachshund necklace. 

I didn't know it, sitting there at graduation...but there was one gift left.

Text from my archnemesis Tyler as I was making a low-key exit: "Don't leave. Jake is looking for you."

Text from Amy, annoyed:  "Remember, back when you were in the elementary, you used to use polite language?"

Turning around, I headed back to the auditorium, looking for Jake in the milling crowd.

Jake.

Who, in 4th grade, was a BIG personality in a small package.

Who, in 4th grade, had a grin that stretched from wall-to-wall.

Who, in 4th grade, taught me the difference between the words "bad" and "naughty." Jake was not bad...he was naughty. And, heaven help me, I love the naughty ones.

Who, in 4th grade, taught me that parental involvement would always have an infinitely greater impact on children than a teacher EVER could BUT...when parents and teachers team up...that kid doesn't stand a chance! Poor Jake. 

Jake. With a grin stretching from wall-to-wall, fought his way through the crowd to me with a box bigger than a 4th grader. I couldn't see a whole lot past that point (I'm not crying...YOU'RE crying). Jake couldn't see either, obviously. He couldn't see that the greatest gift in the world that he could ever give me was becoming the amazing man he is...walking across that stage (like through the magical wardrobe of Narnia) and entering a world where he will make a difference. Knowing I played an infinitesimally benign role in his life is so satisfying...soul-satisfying. But I'll take an adorable dachshund constructed out of cupcakes too!