Moving Up

"School's out, school's out!

Teacher let the monkeys out!

One flew east, one flew west

One flew up the teacher's dress!"

--(Traditional grade-school chant)

Today is the last day David walked out of Silverbrook Elementary School as a student.

It's hard to believe that the little tiny boy who clambered so readily onto his first school bus seven autumns ago--without even looking back at his parents over the enormous backpack he was carrying--is now leaving Silverbrook and will be in seventh grade at South County Secondary School in the fall.

Over the last few weeks there have been ceremonies and signs and events heralding the coming change.  His SACC class put on the sixth-grade play of Wizard of Oz; David was the narrator and the Wizard Himself.  His Scout troop had its summer Court of Honour, bringing to an end the formal part of the Scouting year and readying the boys for summer camps and Jamboree.  And of course there was the sixth grade promotion ceremony yesterday.

The kids filled four ranks of students across the entire gym wall; some looked so grown, some looked like they still had some growing to do, and all of them looked just SO ready to move on.  They sang a song about turning thirteen, with the changes they're going through; our still-11-year-old son looked a little left out.  Cameras and handheld video were in overdrive, and parents embarrassed kids with exaggerated waving and blowing of kisses...just like any other such ceremony.  And some present (and I'm not naming names) had a few tears in their eyes as the class DVD was played and parents could see all the adventures and memories the kids had in their last year at the school.

Much as seven years ago we thought David was just SO ready for school, he gives every indication of being SO ready to move on to SCSS.  He understands it will be harder, there will be more work, and that he has to spend a year as a dreaded "sevvie" (or seventh-grader--the lowest form of life in the Universe).  But behind the studied nonchalance and pre-teen boredom he projected during the ceremony yesterday (oh come on, like no other pre-teen ever put on that show in public??), there really and truly is a pride in having made it this far, and an expectation--even perhaps, if you catch him in the right mood, and enthusiasm--for what comes next.  It's been a tremendous ride with him for the first half of his public school career.  Buckle in tighter, because it's doubtless another level of excitement soon to come.

"School's out, school's out!

Teacher let the monkeys out!

One was jailed, one prevailed,

Both asked God, How have I failed?"

--(Traditional grad-school chant)

Worlds Crashing Down: A Hard Life Lesson

It's taken a couple of weeks for me to write about what happened with Sarah recently.  One evening, apropos of nothing, she came to us and asked about Santa.

Mary and I have always said that when the kids ask a direct question and say they want to know, we won't lie, we'll tell them.  And with David, it's been remarkably easy: he's edged towards directly asking, but always pulls away.  "You know, Daddy, some kids say there's no Santa Claus," is a typical approach he'll make.  "And what do you think?" we'll ask.  "Oh, I believe," is the invariable reply of our nearly 12-year-old.

But what do you do with, "Is there really a Santa Claus? Or do you buy the presents that come from Santa and put them under the tree?"  "What do you think, honey?" I said, trying the usual dodge that worked so well on her brother.  "I want to know the truth."  "Well, do you really want to know?" "Yes, I do!  Tell me!"

If you're us, you gulp hard, you look at each other, and you go down a road you hoped you'd never have to go down.

This started with Sarah looking at a postcard one evening that she'd received from Santa some years back; it showed him relaxing on the beach, presumably after the busy season.  Her comment was that it just didn't look right, it didn't look like Santa, and that it didn't seem real.  Which led to the harder questions, supra.

We confessed that there is no single old man in a red suit who visits every house in a single night, and that yes, we do buy the presents that come from him and put them under the tree.  We said that Santa is a spirit of giving that never goes away, that he represents the love of children, and Mary added a few other well-expressed words to show what he meant.

Sarah, of course, started to cry.  She began to plead with us to "take it back," but unfortunately, once said, that's not something that can be taken back.

We felt absolutely, utterly awful.  What kind of parents are we, yanking away a trasured childhood icon from a nine-year-old?  In a world that forces children to grow up oh so fast, have we surrendered too early?  Should we have evaded, dodged, indeed lied once more, given her another season of magic, before the world snatches away innocence?  Or were we better off being honest, leveling with her, despite the tears and the disillusionment, by respecting her maturity and the way she pressed for honesty from her parents, whom she has (up until now) trusted as icons of truth?

That night we also let the veil slip for David, who was also saddened, but didn't cry.  And then I read to the kids (mostly David, as Sarah wasn't in the mood for much of the story) the Berkeley Breathed story, Red Ranger Came Calling.  In it, a sour little boy who doubts Santa has an experience he'll never forget, complete with photographic proof that the spirit of giving exists.  I've always loved that book, and that night I cried my eyes out too, saddened mostly by the loss of innocence that sharing the story meant, but also from a still-lingering, 40-year-old sense of wanting to believe, wanting it still to be true, that I just couldn't put into words that horrible night.

The topic hasn't come up again in the last few weeks.  It probably won't until some awkward days late in the year, when decorations start coming up and cherished traditions, such as the cookies on the plate and checking the Norad radar for Santa, start to lose their immediate meaning.  It will be a sadder Christmas in our house this year, just from this loss.  All we can do is hope we made the right choices as worlds of innocence came crashing down this spring.

Bridging to Junior Girl Scouts

Last Sunday, Sarah had the opportunity to complete her time in Brownies by doing a "bridging ceremony" at which she would become a Junior Girl Scout.  Unfortunately, thunderstorms threatened, and so we had to move the ceremony into the heavily-unused Landmark Mall, where the girls instead used an escalator to signify their moving from one level to another.

Each girl had a parent offer her words of praise and encouragement before she made the choice to ride the escalator into Juniors.  Mary and I worked on our speech for days in advance, but when the time came, Daddy got a little too choked up to read it all verbatim.  So here, instead, is the long-form version of what we intended to tell her that day.

Many of us have been together watching our sons and brothers at Boy Scout Courts of Honour as they receive awards and promotions. But today, Sarah, it’s our turn to tell you, in the presence of your brother and your family and your sisters in Scouting that you are special. More than that, you are loved: by us, by your brother, by Grammie and Grampa, and everyone here.

Nearly four years ago, a little girl pulled on her Daisy jumper for the first time and started down the road that led to this bridge today. Along that path, that little girl has grown so much in those four years. From Disney princesses to the Suite Life and iCarly; from “read me a story” to “Sarah, it’s 10 o’clock, put the book down and go to sleep”; from a few friends in the neighborhood to the great crowd of friends you’ve made through your four years in Troop 2781—in so many ways, Sarah, you have grown so much in these last four years.

Your time in Brownies has given you more confidence, which we see when you go out to sell your cookies and when you ask to camp out. You’ve taken your generous, gentle nature and allowed it to blossom as you studied nature, the environment, and taken steps to help save your world and think about people around the globe. You’ve learned about other cultures, and from the strong, caring women who guide you in the Troop, you receive a sense of what you can become someday.

That day is coming faster all the time. You have grown so tremendously much since the little kindergartener who walked shyly into her first Daisy meeting, it’s just to amazing to see the beautiful young lady you are turning into. In the midst of your friends, you have been a leader, a source of hugs, a clown; you have shown confidence, and you have built friendships that we hope will last you a lifetime. In your next stage, as a Junior Girl Scout, you will learn more about yourself, and build a firm foundation for the kind of life you want to lead. It’s been a tremendous pleasure watching you explore your world as a Daisy and a Brownie, and we can hardly imagine all the adventures that are waiting for you on the other side of this bridge. God bless your steps, as you cross into Juniors and throughout your time in Girl Scouting.