Graduation time: do you have a tissue?

I am a crier. Not in the sense of someone who makes announcements for the town but in the sense of a person who weeps often, especially for joy. Yep, I cry for joy a lot, so much so that when Primo was about 3 years old, I remember he went to school and saw a picture in a book of a woman crying and the teacher asked what she doing doing and he said “She’s crying for joy.”

When it comes to baptisms, weddings and graduations, I am like a woman preparing a shitload of French onion soup. I realize that in can freak my kids out when I start to publicly bawl, and it’s pretty damn embarrassing for me too, so I try to restrain myself but I am a highly emotional creature and sometimes I just can’t cut off the waterworks. Since it is graduation time, there has been a lot of tearing up lately.

At Seconda’s graduation, I was all kinds of choked up. The two women that teach the two and three year-olds at their Montessori are actual saints. They are the very pinnacle of teacher-dom; kind, caring, and firm, they really embrace each child for who they are, exactly who they are, faults, idiosyncrasies, peccadilloes, the whole kit and caboodle. I mean, I can’t even afford the same level of acceptance and generosity to my own husband and they afford to every kid in their class. You honestly get the sense that EVERY child is their favorite child, and that they genuinely love their jobs, that they enjoy spending their days with a room full of 2 year-olds. And frankly, they manage the kids so impeccably that I enjoy spending time in their room of 2 year-olds. Outside of that classroom, I can’t take more than one two-year old around me at a time without wanting to pull my hair out but in their little Xanadu, the kids are kind, helpful industrious. They share. They work quietly. They say please. I don’t know what those teachers have coursing through their blood that makes them so calm and supportive but if I could buy it on the black market, I would.

I’ll put it to you this way. I am not the only parent who told them that I’d consider having another baby just so I could get to come back to their classroom.

So when it was time to say goodbye, Seconda was totally fine and I was wiping my eyes like a sap, giving the teachers over-long hugs like a weirdo. I love those guys. It is the end of an era now that my baby’s been through their classroom.

Primo just had his Kindergarten graduation, too, and although it’s not been as smooth sailing this year for him, thanks to a few persistent playground bullies, I nonetheless started to tear up when he walked over with his official diploma.

“Mommy is so proud of you.” I wept, “You’re such a big boy.”

In these graduation moments, I can’t help but see how quickly time is passing. I remember with a keen clarity the very first time I saw my baby boy, I remember pinching his toe to make sure he was still breathing and being too scared to change his diaper. And now he’s finished Kindergarten. Next year, he’ll be in an official, numbered grade with no “Kinder” to indicate that he is still a little boy. Next thing you know he’ll be packing the car to drive off to college and I’ll be making a huge, ridiculous scene with my mascara running, chasing after the car, yelling, “You’re still my baby! You’ll always be MY LITTLE BABY!!!!!!”

So not cool.

Graduation Day

Off I go to Primo's preschool graduation, where I will, no doubt, cry like a baby. I am a big crier. That is why my daughter, age 2, commonly uses the expression "cry for joy" in conversation.

David: "Why is Mommy crying?"

Seconda: "She reading the Giving Tree book. She ky-ing for JOY!"

But on this monumental occasion, let's take a little trip back in time and recall my son's first day at nursery school, almost three long years ago. I have just the thing to take us there -- "Preschool Jitters," published in the Park Slope Reader, Spring 2008.

PRESCHOOL JITTERS

By Nicole Caccavo Kear


It’s 8am on a Monday morning and I have changed my outfit three times.

“Is this too flashy?” I ask Primo.

“Nope!” he responds.

I am skeptical: “You sure?”

‘Elmo!” he responds.

Not helpful. Then I remind myself that although he’s unquestionably a fashion prodigy, he is only two years old.

I stuff a manila envelope full of paperwork, strap Primo into the stroller and rush out of the front door, stopping briefly to apply lipstick.

“It’s late,” I mutter, “Great first impression.”

Am I headed to an interview for a big-wig job? To sign the contract on a high-rise condo?

I am on my way to the first day of school. Not mine, of course; Primo’s nursery school. My son, blithely unaware of what awaits him, is calm, composed, unfazed by my jitters.

What if no one talks to us? What if everyone’s already made friends? What if the other parents misinterpret my carefully-designed hip mama look as plain trashy? What if my son assaults another student or refuses to relinquish the Play-doh at clean-up time?

When we’re a block away, I ask Primo, “Are you ready for your first day of school?” and, all of a sudden, I’m hit with a wave of empty nest syndrome which makes me start to cry. So I flip open my cell and speed-dial “Hubby.”

“Our baby is all grown up,” I moan, “We just brought him home from the hospital and now he’s going to his first day of school!”

“It’s only for two hours,” my husband replies. He delivered the same pep talk to me last night.

“But it’s the first in a lifetime of first days of school.” I persist, “And what if he’s not popular?”

I hang up on my husband and decide its time to pull myself together, since having a manic mother does not increase the likelihood of ending up in the popular crowd.

Neither does posing for a photo shoot in front of the school building, but that doesn’t stop me from pulling Primo out of the stroller and arranging him in various collegiate positions on the front steps while I snap away like the paparazzi. When I’m sure I’ve got a shot that can be blown up to 8 x 10, I take my son’s hand to steady myself and enter the building.

The school we chose is perhaps the most feel-good place on earth. Everything is clean, well-organized and drenched in sunlight – from the trunk of dress-up clothes to the reading nook to the tank where Mama Hermit Crab and her snail friends live. It is such a cheerful, inviting place that it leaves me wondering what the catch is.

His new teacher, Carole, is standing in the classroom door to greet us: “Welcome to our classroom, Primo,” she says, “Would you like to see your cubby?”

I am flooded with a delicious warm feeling. If Sesame Street was a real place, this would be it, with Carole in charge of kicking all clouds away to insure a lifetime of sunny days for all.

We walk together to a wooden cubby where some dear soul has Velcro-ed a sign with “Primo” written in even block letters. It is perfect and I brush away a tear.

“Let’s hang up your sweater,” Carole suggests, “and then you can explore the classroom. There are so many fun things that you may be interested in.”

Who could resist this enchanting calmness? My son takes the teacher’s hand and walks over to the snack table where she sings him an impromptu ditty about Cheerios.

I perch on a miniature chair along the wall and watch with satisfaction as Primo sits at the table like a civilized gentleman and drinks his water as politely as you please. I let the warm sensation wash over me. It’s like the relaxed feeling I used to get after drinking a glass of wine. I am buzzed on nursery school.

Two hours later, Carole invites the children to the rug, making sure to mention that it’s OK if they opt to continue their independent work. Then it’s time to sing the good-bye song.

“Time to go already?” I think.

On the way home, I give my husband an enthusiastic report. No battery and assault, no tantrums, no worrisome asocial behavior. Carole noted that Primo showed interest in many different kinds of activities, and she said it approvingly, as if cementing his potential as a real Renaissance Man. I, for one, pulled my weight, chatting with the other moms and communicating that I was hip but down-to-earth, progressive but not radical, a nice middle-ground mother. All in all, a resounding success. I may even be able to leave next time.

The first day is behind us and forward we ride, into a future of algebra and trigonometry and calculus, science projects and summer reading. Pop quizzes, ERBs, SATs. Not to mention in crowds and packed lunch and school dances. It’s excruciating -- so sweet, so terrifying -- to think of how we’ve only just begun. And the thought of this brings a lump to my throat again and makes me wonder how I’ll ever make it through.

So I turn my attention to my son: “Did you have fun at school?”

“Cheerios!” he laughs delightedly.

“I love our little talks.” I tell him.