There is a distinct possibility that I will cry during pre-school graduation. I know my son isn’t moving out. Hell, he still can’t wipe his own butt. It’s just the realization that my baby is growing up. My girlfriend is still having a difficult time accepting it and her son is 18. Actually today is his last day of high school and she sobbed as much as his first of kindergarten. She has a lot to be proud of. She raised an amazing young man, but gone are the days of watching him play football in zero degree weather, being his chauffeur and nagging about homework. It’s funny how we complain through the years. Then, we long for these moments after dropping our children off at college. I thought about her this morning as my oldest whined about taking a final exam, my youngest cried when I brushed her teeth (clearly her life goal is to be a hillbilly) and my middle child, half asleep, (I hope) kicked me in the gut when I struggled to wake him up. Today I didn’t care. I was content. Well, at least until I was forced to listen to other pre-school mothers talk about making jam. They picked their own strawberries because “it’s a good activity for the family.” I don’t understand why anyone would pretend to be a farmer in 90 degree heat when they are packaged for you at the grocery store. Yesterday these women were discussing how their children are only allowed to watch 30 minutes of TV a week. My kids panic when the power goes out for more than a half hour. I won’t miss them and their ability to make me feel like a shitty mother. I will miss hearing about circle time and the new songs my son learned that day, but I still have 12 more years of this. Each year will bring a new adventure. I will try to slow down and cherish simple things like field trips, family dinners, soccer games and kissing my baby goodnight. Then, there is a distinct possibility I will cry at that graduation ceremony too.

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