In June 2006, my boy walked across his classroom in a paper hat and yarn tassel to officially become a junior kindergarten graduate. I cried, of course. He loved Star Wars, LEGO, The Packers, Superman and cereal. He hoped to become a superhero when he grew up.
In June 2016, my boy walked across a room in a navy fedora and red bow tie to officially become an elementary school graduate. I cried, of course. He loved The Packers, football, basketball, video games, football, Doctor Who, 70s rock music, tumblr, Stephen King books, gummy bears, football. He hoped to go to Madison and to become a quantum physicist when he grew up.
In June 2020, my boy received a high school diploma. There was no pomp. There was no circumstance.
But, well, there was a cap and gown and a lawn sign. And he who must not be photographed agreed to have this photo taken! So there was a miracle too.
In June 2020, in the time of Corona, my son became a high school graduate. I cried, of course. He loves The Packers, still, football, still, basketball, still, video games, still, football, still, gummy bears, still, football, still.
He will be starting York University in September — virtually, because Corona — and hopes to become a History professor when he grows up.
So much has changed, and I’m not just talking about his voice. He’s older, he’s taller (than me!), he’s funnier, he’s *almost* able to make Wacky Mac without burning my house down, he’s slightly less picky, and slightly more hipster, and the boy sure can throw a football across a field. And don’t get my started on how good he is at making an omelet.
So much has changed, but my hopes for him remain the same.
I hope he is happy, and he is fearless in the pursuit of what sets his soul on fire.
Even when that pursuit is convincing me to watch all of the Marvel movies with him.
NO YOU’RE CRYING.