Time to Send the Graduate Packing, and I’m Not Even Sad About It

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It’s graduation season, and everywhere you look, kids are sporting caps and gowns—whether they’re finishing preschool or earning their PhDs. This year feels particularly poignant for me as my oldest, Jake, is a high school senior. I’ve been warned about the emotional rollercoaster I’m supposed to experience. They say I’ll yearn for the days of his first-grade send-off to replace the bittersweet moment of his twelfth-grade farewell. But honestly? I’m just not feeling it.

I’ve watched those kindergarten videos, rifled through old report cards filled with sweet notes from teachers, and stumbled upon forgotten baby photos and teenage Mother’s Day cards while piecing together a senior tribute. Yet, not a single one of those memories has tugged at my heartstrings. You might be wondering what’s wrong with me. I think I’ve figured it out.

Every year, a certain poem circulates online, reflecting on all the “lasts” we share with our children. It’s undeniably touching, especially when it talks about those final moments:

• One day, you will carry them on your hip, then set them down and never pick them up that way again.
• They will hold your hand to cross the street, then one day, they won’t reach for it anymore.
• They will run to you with arms wide open for the last time.

Sure, I’ll admit that I’ve felt a tear or two welling up when I’m already in a sentimental mood. But at this moment, I’m more focused on moving this towering, food-devouring, mess-making teenager out of my house and into his bright future. In fact, I have some “lasts” of my own that I’m ready to celebrate:

Once your child hits puberty, life takes a sharp turn. You might find yourself reminiscing about the time when entering his room didn’t require a gas mask. Those days are long gone, just like his willingness to heed your advice.

This is the last time I’ll receive calls from school about my angel leaving campus without permission. I can still picture him performing a Dukes of Hazzard spinout in the parking lot, except it happened in a crowded school lot, resulting in him clipping a bumper before crashing into a light pole.

These are the last days of a bedroom filled with toys and Legos, now transformed into a culinary disaster zone, complete with every piece of flatware and an impressive collection of cups with curdled milk stuck to the sides. But hold on tight, because these days won’t last forever.

Soon, I won’t log into iTunes to find a whopping $107 in charges for an NCAA Basketball app or a playlist of questionable songs. I won’t witness my 18-year-old hitting golf balls into the neighbor’s window anymore, nor will I find measuring cups stuffed where the skillets belong after asking him to unload the dishwasher.

There will come a glorious day when he packs away every pair of crusty underwear, moldy towel, and half-used can of deodorant that he believes still works—and he’ll be out the door. That will be the last time I hear the screech of his car, which sounds like a dying animal, pulling out of the driveway. But that day is not here yet.

So forgive me if I’m not feeling nostalgic. He’s ready. He knows how to find food and utensils. He can pack himself, and he’s aware that there are tools for personal hygiene out there. I’m confident he remembers how to find his way home—hopefully not for the last time.

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In summary, while the traditional emotional milestones of graduation can be profound, I’m focusing on the excitement of sending my child off to his next adventure without looking back. It’s a new chapter for both of us, and I’m ready to embrace it.