The Last Year Of Elementary School

"Your last year of elementary school," I said as I parked the car for back-to-school night. "Can you believe it?"

Natalie scowled. "Are you crying?" She unbuckled her belt and leaned forward. I felt her breath against my cheek.

"No," I answered, blinking back tears. Not technically. But. It's her last year of elementary school. That's a big deal. I mean, wasn't she JUST heading off to preschool and skipping beside me as I held her hand?

And now?

Now.

She used to be into Disney princesses. Yo Gabba Gabba. Now she talks to me about PopSockets, lip gloss, and says things to me like, "Swish, swish, bish" and I don't know whether to punish her, or realize she's quoting a song. She doesn't smile as much in pictures, because she thinks it's cooler to have a model pout.

It's not a lie when you're told it goes by quickly. At first you don't believe it when they're tiny because the hours seem to slide by at a snail's pace. There's only so many episodes of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse you can take. So many times you can feign excitement when they bring you a plastic piece of food. "You made this for me? Oh yum, yum, YUM!"

But suddenly, when you aren't paying full attention, things change. It's no longer silly cartoons on the TV, it's an odd Disney Channel program where the kids seem like brats, and there's a laugh track, and your kid is telling you about the newest YouTube star who has their own show.

You realize it's their last year of elementary school.

"Come on," Natalie urged, sounding like the adult as she grabbed the bags of school supplies to turn in.

I took a deep breath. There was no turning back. This was happening.

We walked down the halls and I thought, "How many more times will we do this?" We walked into her new class and I noticed the thick schoolbooks. Gone where the skinny ones with cartoons characters on the front.

Gone were the children's name written in sharpie on crayons or other shapes and stuck on the desks.

Natalie's teacher said they could write their names on a Post It and pick where they wanted to sit.

"Sweet," Natalie said, grabbing a Post It. She wrote her name and then peered at all the desks. She had her pick: only a few other kids had arrived. She found a desk, and I asked for a photo, the same kind of photo I've taken every year.

Normally Natalie would give in, but this time?

"We do this every year. It's getting embarrassing."

But eventually she caved when she saw other kids taking pictures with their parents.

"But you need to take it down a notch. I know I'm your last baby, but chill."


I won't chill because this is her last year of elementary school.


So now whenever I walk down the halls, I might take it in a bit more.

Because who knows?

It might be my last time.