Amy McGarry
Remember when you were a kid and time seemed to go by so slowly? You felt like you were nine years old in the third grade forever. You were always looking forward to being a teenager, then an adult, but it took so long. Then one day, you’re an adult and every year seems to go by faster and faster.
There’s a science to this phenomenon, or maybe math. I’m not good with either, but this makes sense to me. It’s called “Ratio of Time to Life Span.” Put simply, as we age, a year represents a smaller proportion of our total life. For children, a year is a large portion of their life. For older people, it’s a smaller fraction. The more years we have under our belts, the more quickly the years seem to pass.
I was 40 years old when I had my one and only child, my daughter. At that late age, to begin my adventures in parenting, I had acquired a little wisdom along the way. I knew that time was passing more quickly and, as everyone says, my daughter’s childhood would pass too quickly. I knew she would grow up too fast. I knew I should cherish every minute.
Full confession: I didn’t always enjoy being a parent and I didn’t cherish every minute. Time flies when you’re having fun, but what about when you’re not having fun? Don’t get me wrong. I love my daughter with all my heart, but she wasn’t an easy child. She was especially active, and I had health issues that made it hard to parent such an active child. I always tried my best, but I didn’t always enjoy it.
The COVID-19 pandemic hit when my daughter was smack in the middle of middle school – the seventh grade. In retrospect, I can be sad for all the kids whose lives were so unfairly disrupted with the quarantine, like the seniors in high school who didn’t get to have a graduation ceremony. At the time, however, our online-middle school-from-home-life was so miserable, it was all I could do to get through every day. For my daughter’s privacy I won’t share specific details, but I literally thought we both might end up in the loony bin. And pandemic time went by so slowly.
Lest I feel too sorry for myself, I know I had it easier than many, mostly because I have the one and only child – not two, or three, or six. I must also be grateful. For as challenging as online school was for my daughter, there were some great teachers who helped make it less painful.
When the quarantine ended, my daughter returned to school mid-year as an eighth grader. But she, like so many other Gen-Zers, continued to struggle with mental health issues. Luckily for us, she had a very good counselor, who helped tremendously. Again, I am so grateful. But for me, time continued to slug along at a snail’s pace.
And then, the miracle. When you are raising a daughter who was difficult, literally from birth, you can’t help but dread the teenage years. Or heck, just remembering myself as a teenager made me dread my daughter’s teenage years. But when my daughter started high school, she became a pure delight. And easy! Of course, we have our moments, but all in all, my kid is the best teenager I could ever imagine. She’s pleasant, she likes school, she enjoys spending time with me, and she talks to me. I couldn’t be happier, and we are having fun! But what happens to time when you’re having fun? Yes, time flies! It doesn’t help that I’m getting so old that the whole Ratio-of-Time-to-Life-Span thing is doing its number on me.
Now it’s September and my daughter, my baby, my one and only, is starting her (gulp) senior (last!) year of high school. September emotions for me have always included excitement and hope. September is better than January for new beginnings, fresh starts and optimism. But this September, I’m overcome with a whole new set of emotions, such as panic and grief.
We recently went shopping together for back-to-school supplies. I almost cried. I realized this is the last time she and I will go back-to-school shopping. Those precious packs of pencils. Those glowing neon highlighters. And now I’m grieving all the “lasts:” the last first day-of-school photos, the last softball games, the last school dances, the last yearbook; the list goes on and on.
But I don’t want to just grieve this list of lasts; I want to cherish the lasts. I want to cherish every moment. All that “wisdom” as a 40-year-old new mother, but I wasn’t wise at all. I didn’t cherish nearly as much as I wish I had. “Well, better late than never,” I say. I can make up for it now by cherishing each and every moment, including when I sit in the passenger seat as she practices driving, my least favorite moments with my daughter whom I usually enjoy so much.
My daughter will enter her senior year at the age of 16 because she skipped kindergarten and started first grade a year early. She just finished her driver’s education classes but still needs many hours of practice driving before she can take the test for her driver’s license. I’m not saying my daughter is not a good driver, but she’s still learning. I’m not a good instructor as I’m prone to panic. I panic when she takes a turn too wide. I panic when she comes up to a stoplight too fast. I panic at the thought of her driving by herself.
What’s more, I panic when I think that she will most likely be moving out at this time next year, leaving me and her father with an empty nest. Just as I failed to prepare her for driving by getting her behind the wheel as soon as possible, I have failed to prepare her for so much she will need when she leaves home.
In my defense, of course I spoiled her. She’s an only child. Furthermore, she’s a Gen-Zer whose parents are notorious for overparenting, resulting in kids who are less independent than previous generations. But perhaps the biggest issue is that Acts of Service is my love language. I’m not a hugger or a gift giver, but I will do everything for my daughter to show her I love her. Never mind it would serve her better to let her do things for herself. I’m talking about survival skills: cooking, shopping, making appointments, and doing laundry.
The good news is that I figured this out as an almost empty nester instead of next year, when it will be too late. I still have time! And I’m seeing some good signs already. Recently she had plans for a picnic with friends. I came into the kitchen as she was loading something into her bag.
“I made sandwiches, mama!”
“What? You made sandwiches! Fabulous,” I replied, clapping my hands.
I know, you’re thinking, “Whoop-dee-doo, making sandwiches is no big deal.” But it was to me. She could have asked me to make sandwiches. But she didn’t. She took it upon herself to make them. That told me she is taking steps towards independence. Maybe they are baby steps, but she is taking steps.
At the time of this writing, it is the last weekend before the start of senior year. I reminded my daughter of this, and we both went into fake sobbing. We then proceeded to write out the softball schedule on the calendar, joking about being a senior and still being on junior varsity. Oh, these precious lasts.
As you read this, I’ll be well into my list of lasts, but I’ll be over my pity party, knowing billions of parents everywhere have gone through this, or are going through this same grief. As you read this, I plan to be too busy cherishing every little last to feel sorry for myself. You might see me in the stands at a JV softball game, too hot or too cold, my butt hurting, cheering on my senior, cherishing these precious, precious lasts.
Amy McGarry grew up in Spokane Valley, Washington. After a 20 year hiatus, she moved back to Spokane Valley where she lives with her husband, daughter and two cats. She is the author of I am Farang: Adventures of a Peace Corps Volunteer in Thailand, available on Amazon.com, Auntie’s Bookstore, and Barnes and Noble.