Reason number 8 for not crying during your daughter’s senior year of high school is bulletin boards. Kids and teenagers love to hang bulletin boards and white boards in their rooms. They love to post pictures of things that matter to them—their dogs, for instance, or their friends. They also like to scrawl reminders to themselves “composition due Thursday!”, “remember gym clothes!” They might also post photos of favorite vacations or mementos like programs or team pictures.
My youngest son, Clay (8), recently hung his own bulletin after asking several times and waiting several days for his dad or I to take care of it for him. Taking matters into his own hands (as is the tendency of all three of my youngest children as my concierge mom tendencies drifted away long before they had the chance to truly experience them), he matter-of-factly removed all items from the bulletin board I had hung in my laundry room office, found a hammer, and hung the board himself. The boy is nothing if not self-sufficient. Clay has been on quite the room decorating kick for the last several weeks. He and his sister found a kids’ room makeover show on YouTube and he’s been scheming and dreaming about what theme he might pursue. Toucans, perhaps? Or football? Or football playing toucans? But what about cars? (The boy has always adored race cars). In a nod to this recent interest, we finally bought him his own dresser and nightstand (he had been using a 25 year old hand-me-down from his dad’s first grown-up furniture purchase circa 1996). Clay has also broken a recent habit of sleeping on the floor beside my bed. He’s been there for about the last year, having watched something scary on YouTube (YouTube and Chad and I are co-partners in parenting), but thanks to some furniture and a bulletin board, he is now brave enough to sleep upstairs alone again.
My old rocking chair is also part of Clay’s current room decor. He still likes me to sit there each evening while he falls asleep. It’s a peaceful time when I read and sometimes (ok, most times) drink wine and watch my baby boy drift into dreamland. I never let my thoughts slip into memories of nursing the same sweet baby in that same chair, because I’m not a sentimental mom who tends to cry over such things. And also, this blog series isn’t about my baby boy, it’s about my great big almost-grown-up girl. So back to the bulletin board.
The other night, when I finally made my way to my littlest’s room with my book and my wine in hand, I noticed that he had hung photos on his bulletin board. I walked over to examine it more closely and immediately proceeded not to cry. There was, of course, a picture of the dog, and a triumphant photo we snapped of him high up in the South Dakota Badlands last summer. There were hand drawn sketches he had done of a dabbing rabbit and a toucan, and a postcard he received from his aunt and cousins in Texas. What made me not cry, however, were the two items he placed in honor of his beloved oldest sister. He had her beautiful school volleyball picture in the top left corner—clearly the first thing he hung, clearly a testament to his adoration of this beloved second mom. Not crying. And there was an index card drawing I knew Grace had done one summer (or winter? I can’t remember exactly) afternoon when she was babysitting the kids while I was at work. I will always cherish memories of walking into the kitchen after a long day to find the three of them—the two youngest and Grace—huddled together over some project at the table. They all have these index card creations somewhere. (Grace has one of my favorites taped to her bedroom mirror—“don’t be a pine in the apple”—next to a drawing of a smiling pineapple. She also has one in a cheap drugstore frame that Clay made for her that long ago day). I have one hung up in my office. Mine says “Stay cool! Love, Grace” next to a striped, smiling popsicle. Not crying.
My littles adore Grace. She isn’t always the snuggly, advice wielding big sister of the memory I just described. More often she is brusque and irritated—ordering them out of her room or rushing out the door with barely a glance in their direction. But she is often loving and lively—a fun alternative to the mom who always seems worried about emptying the dishwasher and finishing homework. Grace has been my right hand for most of her life, especially when it comes to caring for and entertaining the littles. When all my kids were babies, my mom used to say, “There is nothing like a mom—except for a grandma!” “Or a Grace,” I would insist. Because my babies always loved their big sister, and she tirelessly cared for them when I couldn’t. “Every mom should have a Grace,” I used to say, when she saved and supported me yet again when the demands of my large brood overwhelmed me. (Don’t misunderstand—Chad is a brilliant and helpful husband and dad—but he works a lot, and he has his hands full with the maintenance and care of two homes. Most times the childcare efforts fall more heavily on me, and I regularly have to lean on smart and steady Grace to get through my days). I started letting her babysit alone at eleven, because she had spent most of her life protecting and loving and tending to her little siblings. All my kids rejoice when Grace is tapped to drive their carpool. In return they worship and depend on her. How will we ever get by next year? Not crying.
I noticed this note on the white board in Grace’s room the same night I saw Clay’s bulletin board. Under a couple of reminders in Grace’s own hand were giant messages in Lucy’s handwriting, “Grace is Awesome!” and “I’m going to miss you!” Not crying.
Don’t get me wrong. We have never been a super sweet and tender family. In contrast to the evidence to the contrary above, I vividly recall another drawing taped to Grace’s door one afternoon that said something along the lines of “Grace is a poopy head” next to a drawing of a steaming pile of excrement, viciously crayoned dark brown. We are generally afraid to leave our windows open on nice days because of how much yelling and bickering goes on between us. Seriously, what must the neighbors think? Grace is not often a part of this, more because she is gone so much then because she is immune to our tendency to argue about everything (mostly housework and who borrowed/used/lost/ruined/ate someone else’s stuff). But under all that noise and surface-level strife, burns a family love so fierce and vital that none of us quite know how we can possibly transition in a few months from a family of 7 under one roof, to one less. Grace is at the heart of that love—beloved firstborn—who transformed Chad and I from ordinary people to extraordinary parents (because we made her!), and biggest sister—for whom the rest have never known a life without. But bulletin boards are just cheap wall hangings, not a reason to get all sentimental. Old drawings are just diversions leftover from a long ago rainy day. I’m not crying, you’re crying.
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