Guilt: It's what's for breakfast

Guilt has been following me around this week like a faithful puppy.  In every area of my life, my guilt-puppy is there, eager to remind me that I've fallen short yet again.

A few examples:

I didn't go to the grocery store last night because I had an event at school, so this morning, there wasn't any cereal for breakfast.  While at school, I was reminded that I should do more than I'm doing currently, so my guilt-puppy talked me into volunteering for a committee that I do not have time for.  At work, in spite of successfully completing 987 projects, the one project I did not finish is enough to confirm that I am a horrible person who cannot be trusted with responsibility.

I also didn't get the laundry done, so Evan didn't have the red shirt that he needed for Field Day at school.  I forgot an important appointment, I arrived late to a meeting, and I failed to make my middle son's school physical appointment.  While we're at it, I don't call my mother often enough or keep consistently in touch with my friends.

I won't even mention the sugar that I shouldn't be eating.

Indeed, I'm not just visiting the neighborhood of guilt; I've constructed a permanent residence.

By the time I arrived home last night, I felt pretty beaten up.  All of those abusive mind-tapes from childhood kept playing in my head, reminding me of how worthless I truly am.  I should probably just quit my jobs, put the kids up for adoption, and move under a bridge somewhere so that I'm not a constant blight on organization and decency.

Did I mention that I can be quite the catastrophist? 

Someone stop me before I start mentioning the baby pictures I never labeled and how I can no longer remember which one of my kids is which.

Today, some grace appeared to interrupt my self-reproach.  Matt decided to go out for breakfast since we didn't have any cereal, I made the physical appointment that I'd been putting off, and I called my mom.  And don't tell anyone, but you can totally revive a red shirt from the dirty clothes hamper with some Febreze and a quick tumble in the clothes dryer.

Am I perfect?  No. 

Will we survive anyway?  Absolutely. 

On Graduation: Cry Me a River? OK!

(my oldest son's graduation in 2004, when our school was new and there were fewer kids to cry over)

I just got home from the eighth grade graduation ceremony at my son's school.  It was full of the same graduation rituals that have come to define our school's culture for all of its thirteen years:  a slide show of the passing year, a skit by the 7th graders for the 8th graders, and always-inspiring words from our school's founder and principal.

I cried through all of it.

In fact, I've done that very thing at every graduation I've attended.  It doesn't matter who's graduating; my kid or yours.  I will cry just the same.

I remember one year, I arrived with a huge box of tissues.  I tapped the shoulder of a woman in front of me, whose son was graduating, and offered her some of my tissues.

                "I won't need them," she said.  "This is the third time I'm going through this.  I'll be fine."

Fine?  How could she be fine when her son is leaving the innocent environment of elementary school for the uncertain world of high school?  Clearly, she was in some sort of denial.

                "That's OK," I told her.  "I will cry enough for both of us."

It's not that an elementary school graduation is a sad affair.  Far from it!  It is lively and happy and, very often, humorous.  You don't have to look hard to see the excitement on the faces of the graduates as they consider the future ahead of them.  

I guess what trips my emotional switch is that I've known most of these kids since they were in kindergarten.  Our school is a small charter school where everyone knows everyone.   I've watched these kids grow up.  I've supervised them at recess.  I've worked on projects with them.  I've chaperoned their field trips.  I know their families.  And like one big family, we share these common milestones.

It occurred to me as I was driving home that a school is like a garden (well, not like MY garden, full of thistles and weeds, but a garden belonging to someone who actually knows what she's doing.)  Our children start out in kindergarten like seedlings, which are tended and nurtured through the years until finally, they're transplanted elsewhere when they're ready to blossom.  These kids I wept for today are some mighty fine blossoms.

Next year is going to be even more emotional for me than usual.  My middle son will be graduating from high school, and my youngest son  will be graduating from eighth grade.  Two graduations in one year!  How will I cope?  I'll probably be completely incoherent the entire month of June.

If anyone needs me this summer, I'll be the weepy mom with the red nose stockpiling tissues and waterproof mascara.  Graduation is only twelve months away and I want to be prepared.