Transition's Eve, or, Sappy Me...

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[My StoryRhyme blog has been left unattended for quite a while now while my attention has been elsewhere -- Squirrel! Thankfully, though, our good friend Harry Buschman has been kind enough to supply us with his wonderful stories from time to time, taking some of the pressure off. Thank you, Harry!]


StoryRhyme was born from motherhood (which sounds a little backwards, I know). Our boy was the real inspiration as we (Husband and I) re-lived our own childhoods and view of the world through his eyes -- the magic and wonder of the ordinary garden snail inching its way across the nasturtium flower before devouring it ; the excitement of each day; his words full of expectation. "So... What are we going to do today?" he'd say, grabbing one of our hands in his. (I'd really like this to be my approach to the day... Any day.)

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Today, on the eve of what is another transition for our boy -- who now stands taller than I and whose feet are two and a half sizes larger than Husband's..! ..? -- I wax philosophical once more. Here are some random thoughts from a mother whose son is about to be promoted from the eighth grade. (I will try not to be too sappy, but no guarantees there.)

It seems like I've learned more from him and this whole process -- or maybe it's the things I've learned have been the really important things -- than all of my combined knowledge before.

When I feel my cynical/sarcastic/snarky/dark side winning out, all I need do is think of him (and hope my cynical/sarcastic/snarky/dark side doesn't influence him too too much, but it may be too late for that).

He's given me the gift of being around young people -- good young people full of hope and promise -- so much so that I feel just a little shred of optimism about our future (the collective "our"). There are really good young ones out there with the weight of the world on their shoulders, but I have hope. (Small hope, but the flicker is there burning ever-so-lightly.)

The cliches about motherhood: All true. The mother bear fighting off any threats to her young cubs using fangs, teeth, claws, ripping off limbs -- the whole thing is true. Mothers will go midieval on anything that might possibly get in the way of their little lambie foo-foo. (This reminds me of my good old friend Rose's story about personally going after one of her son's bullies and threatening him within an inch of his life. Dropping F-bombs and everything. I can picture the look on that boy's face. I love Rose.)

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My boy keeps me up on some of the current slang, which is epic. I don't like all of it, but what I do like, I use. Much to his dismay. (Epic fail!)

These transitions are much harder on me than I ever would've thought. The one from no school to school was hard. That meant our days were no longer our own to do with as we pleased. No more sleeping in and watching Blues Clues while eating our choco pancakes. No more doing whatever we liked. (Slackers we.) The transition from elementary to middle school left me practically catatonic with unbrushed hair (see Ch-Ch-Changes). But he was so brave about the whole thing. Now, the transition from middle school to high school -- well, I can't even begin to guess how I'll take this one. People, please check on me from time to time; make sure I've still got a pulse; I'm still answering to my name.

I know I'll keep learning from him, and whenever I think of him, I smile and turn to face the light. Because I'm a mom, and that's what we do.

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