What's Growing in the (kinder)Garden
Gwen Stefani & growing up
You and me
We used to be together,
everyday together, always,
I really feel that I'm losin' my best friend
I can't believe this could be the end
These are the lyrics that have played on repeat in our home all Summer.
These words, once fun and edgy, are now a source of pain. A pain I unfortunately can’t escape because I played the song so much it became a family favorite, and is now the most common bedtime song request. So not only do I have to sing the famous Gwen Stefani words, but I have to hear my kids sweet little voices sing them to me. And though I am not going through a breakup, the tear stained t-shirts, sad girl music, and desperate phone scrolling through pictures of all the “baby firsts” would suggest I have. And I guess maybe in a way, that’s exactly what’s happened.
Because my Lucia has officially launched into Kindergarten.
As she put her backpack on, looking at me with her eyebrows raised in a smirk, she said, “I know you’re going to cry,” and she walked into the school. And I thought in that moment that I could not have scripted a more Lucia line if I tried. It was true, and she let herself speak it out loud. As she said the words, it was as if she decided that it wasn’t going to hold her back, but in fact, was going to propel her through the doors. Knowing we’d be crying because we love her so much, and we’d be there to receive her at the end of the day. If that’s true, if she really knew that, it may be one of the few things we are doing right as parents.
We fended off our misty eyes with a breakfast date and a dip in Barton Springs.
But the day got me thinking about Kindergarten, I have a vivid memory of only my first 5 minutes of school.
My stomach demanded attention as I walked into the classroom. I can still smell the room, so specifically foreign. Since my only school experience was a wild preschool that made montessori look like detention, the sight of the white board and name-labeled desks squeezed my chest.
As Mrs. M rounded up the nervous chickens to create a circle on the carpet, I could see my mom sticking around. Lingering by the door and then kneeling down behind me to let me know she was leaving. As she knelt, the girl next to me leaned over. Her shaky quiet voice caught my attention, and she said the most powerful words of my five years of life.
“My name is Lauren, do you want to be my friend?”
This little bubble of tension we were in, there with the three of us huddled near the ground, evaporated in that moment. I didn’t look back, I felt relief for all of us as my mom brushed my shoulder on her way out the door. Lauren and I remained best friends until I moved schools 5 years later, in part because I never forgot her courage and the gift it was to me that day.
It never left me. With all the buildup and nerves, all the preparation for this big step. And with just a few words, my experience became something completely different.
Even in the memory of that moment, I can feel my five year old self maturing. But I never once have thought that I wasn’t the only one growing up that day. Not until I walked my own kid to school, and walked away older, myself. How did we become parents with no idea that every year would bring something new that makes us say “Ohhh, now we’ve arrived at adulthood” Over and over and over.
Turns out, we’re never really done growing up. Everything is just a shift within a shift. Just like my friend Lauren’s words, I have to learn what to speak and what to see that could tilt my view just enough to make it meaningful.
I’m holding so close to this idea right now. In the last two months, virtually every rhythm we’ve had has shifted. We are tender hearts, feeling our way through. When everything looks unfamiliar, when I’m a little scared or excited or just flooded with “new”… how can I shift my perspective as the world turns? So far, the only thing that’s worked is slowing down enough to notice. So we’re not standing still, but we’re not moving fast either.
I’m right in the middle of the family culture I’ve dreamt of and fought for. Soaking in a slow, but rewarding joy. Lots of ends, lots of beginnings, lots of fighting to preserve what’s really really good. I’m just so glad I’m here. I’m so grateful for the internal space we’ve made to really witness these shifts. And yet, this time is also grief-filled. Like watching your teeny tiny baby sprout legs and style and strut into her school all alone and confident. Or realizing your favorite song doesn’t quite match how you feel anymore.
I knew, even as a child, the gift that growing up was. The way you get to achieve and hope and dream. The way nostalgia hurts, so particularly- our bellies pulling our hearts down when we remember that first dance, favorite teacher, that embarrassing moment. I remember. And also, sending Lucia through those doors reminded me of all the new things I'm nostalgic for, and all the things I am living right now that I will talk about one day.
I’m still growing up. We are still growing up.
The experience is not the same, it’s better. I yearn for my kids' old favorite songs. I would do most anything to hear how they pronounced those words so completely and perfectly wrong. But I get another childhood with them, picking up the pieces where I left them, and doing it all over. This time, with my girls curled up in my arms singing songs until we drift off.
It’s painfully sweet. Or as Gwen says,
Don't tell me 'cause it hurts
Give me eyes wide open. Don’t let me miss this. Don’t let me rush through this part, where I get to be both who I was and who I am. Help me to see that you were there with me. In any and every memory I have, I wasn’t alone for a second. Thank you for the merciful gift of growing up.