Well that parenting thing happened as I knew it would.

A few nanoseconds ago (which is to say 16 years ago), I strapped on my seatbelt, and hit the “full on, full speed” button, which catapulted us into a wild ride of parenting grade schoolers and all that the experience brings. And now boom, just like that, the ride is over.

Sixteen years of shopping for backpacks and back to school clothes, making lunches, essay proofing, moral support coaching, listening to rants, pretending not to side with the teacher, and signing parental permission slips – poof…gone, in the blink of an eye.  It has all now been relegated to that era called the good old days.

Yet as we get ready to celebrate our daughter’s graduation from high school with her class celebration event Saturday and then graduation on Tuesday, I can’t help but be wistful and to stare back over my shoulder at the memory lane with all its neon signs, interesting vintage shops, and eclectic nooks and crannies. The macaroni art projects, the felt monster dolls with buttons for eyes, the discarded pointe shoes and soccer cleats, the Anne of Green Gables Canadian Girl doll, and the compelling little handcrafted storybooks about cartoon characters are all coming back to life for me now, like the neglected toys at the end of Toy Story 3, when Andy goes off to college.

Truth be told, our house is still filled with much of that memorabilia…the worthless yet priceless stuff that’s hard to purge. This summer is when much of it will get catalogued into photo memories and carted off to Goodwill. It’s time to do some sweeping – a new empty-nest era is upon us.

But before that happens, I need to do one essential thing. I need to acknowledge that somewhere between the whirlwind of hmmm…we should become parents! and making graduation money leis to place upon the shoulders of our newly-minted college and high school graduates, we did this thing called show up big time for our kids.

We learned how to use Badge Magic to stick badges on scouting sashes, we signed up for committees, we engineered cub cars (well, some of us engineered the fastest cub car while others of us led the Brownie Girl Scouts in making plastic cup drum crafts filled with rice, wrapped with masking tape and embellished with shoe polish). We grew Venus Fly Trap plants for a time or made solar-powered contraptions in the name of the almighty science fair project.

The point is, we were present for all of it. Maybe not quite as helicopter these past four years because like the moon, there are waxing and waning phases. And by this late teen stage, we had learned to buy the remote control helicopter, outsource the fun, and dial the hyper mania back a bit. But we still bore witness, and we definitely had a guiding hand in shaping so many of our kids’ successes, even if just as executive members of their own personal booster clubs. We were still there, albeit lately, in limping and slouching towards the Bethlehem called Grad fashion; a little more battle-weary and worse for wear. One shoe on while the other bloodied and blistered foot is the one that does the official stepping across the finish line.

It has truly been a tag-team affair. While I was busy being whipcracker, idea generator, life coach, and project consultant, Curt was that ever-present chief cook, bottle rocket maker, and calm force. Translation: he was the one they went to when they needed to get complex shit done. Or even the not-so-complex. He sewed the buttons on, duck-taped the broken things, bandaged the bloody knees, and cracked Dad jokes all along the way if only to help them build strong extraocular muscles, as they would roll their eyes straight to the backs of their unimpressed heads.

Yet, as I consider all the ways we showed up for our offspring in their formative school years, some of the memories I will most cherish are the ones in which I had a hand in celebrating their teachers and mentors.

One particularly poignant moment was when I was inspired to go in search of a cheap, discarded violin as a farewell gift for Logan’s orchestra teacher, a Julliard trained violinist who was retiring from teaching in order to pursue a new vocation as a competitive tennis player. We painted it white and then Logan collected money from all the orchestra students/parents, had each of the students sign the violin with Sharpie, and then presented it to Mr. Cohon after the final song of the final orchestra concert that year. Here’s a clip of that moment:

https://www.facebook.com/holy.schmidt.1/videos/vb.592412804/10154789967387805/?type=2&theater

This was particularly moving because Mr. Cohon was his orchestra teacher in 5^th grade, when Logan first took up playing the cello (bless his orchestrating heart because in those formative years, they sounded umm…not as good as they did in later years!). Three years after the concert clip above, the students invited Bill Cohon back to come play with them for their final high school chamber concert. They posed for a picture with him and were able to verbally convey to him, once again, how much he touched their lives and shaped their artistic journeys. He was touched to be asked and had this to say about the experience:

These are the small moments that live large in my memory. The ones where I had an invisible part to play in lending heartfelt commemoration and appreciation to the year-end banquet for the soccer coach, drama teacher, or scout leader.

There aren’t piles of awards for us tributarians who are the serial award nominators and celebrators who help ensure recognition for the ones we see work tirelessly and with little or no pay on behalf of our kids. Getting to see our behind-the-scenes orchestrations come to life is truly its own amazing reward. And yet it has occurred to me these past few days, as I passionately complete yet another award nomination form for a stupendous school parent volunteer to deservedly win the much-coveted Golden Acorn PTA award, that it’s OK to take a moment to acknowledge my own lesser acts of community good.

While I spent more years than I can rightfully count back-bending and ducking well below the school volunteer limbo stick, I was light years away from being a lame school parent. I volunteered in the library, did the Drama Mama volunteer stint, co-chaired a successful Baccalaureate celebration, and championed arts initiatives. Even as I lament that I tanked my Connie Corporate career when we moved to the States, I’m proud that I was there for the kids at every step of the way along their scholastic achievement continuum from pre-school certificate presentation to throwing the high school grad cap way up into the air.

And so at this threshold moment, as we, too, officially graduate from this first couple of decades of parenting into that of being parents to adult children, I’m giving myself permission to feel pride and humility rather than boastful, to count the many blessings this parenting journey has bequeathed us, to forgive ourselves our transgressions (there were many!), and to be the one who is both presenter and recipient of our own makeshift mini golden and glittery acorn….because I’m crafty and shameless like that.

And because oftentimes in life, we have to contrive our own bridge crossings & lesser award ceremonies as a way to honor what was, embrace what is, and invite whatever will be to happen.

Maybe it’s hokey…I don’t know. I don’t much care. I dig the idea of hanging my little hand-painted acorn on my altar tree. It will help affirm to me that rather than feel shame (all those voices from others who told me my breed of parenting was too much began to take up residency in my head), or regret for the extent to which I gave generously to my various community circles over the years (“imagine if you had gotten paid for these things, Danna?”), I need to simply own that Acts of Service is my perennial love language. This is what IS.

What will be? Who knows? Most assuredly grief. We have a nest that is about to become emptier on all kinds of levels as our youngest birdling flies the coop, and as we finally engage in our own quasi-minimalist project. So I can make room for Joy, Grief’s conjoined twin.

And so I can make room for a whole new phase of service…..beginning with the self variety!