"May There Always Be Mama"

Bittersweet. The end of an era. We are gettin' old!
 

 

All words my friends and I have recently used to describe the feelings that come along with experiencing lasts.

 

The last month of elementary school.

 

The last parent helper day at preschool.

 

The last field trip with a treasured teacher.

 

Marshall and I have just returned home from the last Mother's Day Celebration I'll attend at his preschool. Our preschool. The preschool that has nurtured three of our barely potty trained toddlers into full-fledged kindergarteners. We have been driving there a few days a week for five of the six years that we've lived in this city. It has been their cozy home away from home.

 

Marshall's teacher, Mrs. R., is also Mama to four grown children and Nana to seven little ones. She reminds me of my own mom in so many ways, so when she welcomed me into the school family, I decided to cling tightly to her. I listen intently to her advice and adore her ability to laugh at her past. She's lived through so much more than I, so like I do with all mothers, I learn from her.

 

While she teaches my young son to write his letters and practice patience, she also helps guide me through my journey of motherhood. A journey she has passed through herself and one that she witnesses forty times a day. She and I often talk about our last babies. Hearing her recall the life she's led with her family helps me cherish my own moments...our "lasts" as they unfold before my eyes.  

 

The Mother's Day Celebration is an opportunity for the children to showcase their vocal skills while the mamas lovingly gaze upon their little darlings. Cute songs, sentimental songs, a story or two, naturally followed up by cookies and punch. Kleenex is passed around as tears are often shed in that moment of pride and realization that the next step is the big yellow bus and a super hero lunch box.

A couple of weeks before the Mother's Day Celebration, Marshall's teacher shared a touching story with me about the students learning a new song. Mrs. R. described the scene of the morning in this way:

Per the norm for him, Marshall didn't sing any words with the class. The music for one of the new songs is very beautiful, with a lot of flutes and instruments that make people want to sway.

The lyrics to this endearing song are:


"May there always be sunshine...May there always be blue skies...May there always be Mama...May there always be me." 

 

Marshall sat on the carpet among his classmates and listened, as his teacher helped the other children learn the new words. He began to show signs of a quivering lip and tears in his eyes. Eventually, he did open his mouth, but it was not to sing.

He simply stated, "This song makes me feel sad."


My baby boy, who has grown so much, was really listening to that music. To those lyrics. To that melody that was flowing through his body. It was affecting him in a way that many other five-year-olds have probably never experienced, making him think, "What if there wasn't always Mama?" I was so thankful that Mrs. R. was keeping an eye on my guy that morning, and that he felt safe enough to tell her what had happened in his little heart.


I already knew that he wouldn't be singing on performance day. That was a given. I never would have known what goes through his mind during those times he is surrounded by other children who bounce and sing and smile. They stomp and laugh and turn 'round and 'round, while he gazes away from them.


This year, I knew. I knew that he would be feeling the music.


What a gift...to have a teeny peek into his complex mind. Music and teachers are two of my absolute favorite things in this world. They've come together at precisely the right moment on a random spring day to make this particular "last" a little more lasting. I'm sure I'll always remember how it ended.


The Mother's Day Celebration was going well. As usual, excited kids hammed it up on the makeshift stage. With the culmination of the show approaching, Mrs. R. asked my silent performer if he'd like to sit with his mama for the final song. My long-legged, oldest boy in the room nodded and hopped right over to me. He eagerly climbed onto my lap, nuzzling into my embrace. We swayed together to that sappy song, as he quietly wept underneath my chin. Geez, that song is sad! No wonder it makes him cry.




May there always be sweet kids.


May there always be teachers like Mrs. R.


May there always be music.


May there always be double chocolate chunk cookies to pick us up when we stumble. 

My boy is so sensitive. He's quiet. Demure. Reserved. He chooses not to sing or move his hands with the motions during class performances, and we're fine with it. It's who he is. As my mom often reminds me, "Not everyone is the same." (What she probably means to say is, not everyone is a showboat like her daughter). Are you and your kids similar? Do you all love to perform or loathe it, or are you a good mix of both?

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