The great parts of graduation?
Seeing my child in her cap and gown. [Second row, between the redhead with the long hair and the tall boy looking to the right. Click to embiggen. That’s my baby!]
Listening to the choir sing, one last time, with her in it.
The mercifully brief speeches by the valedictorian and salutatorian.
Having a good, comfortable seat with room for my feet and my bag.
The Bitties were both remarkably well-behaved.
A safe drive there and back with Fourthborn and Fiancé.
The very best part of graduation?
The standing ovation given to the parents of a deceased classmate, as they walked on her behalf.
The good but still make me cranky parts of graduation?
Knowing I will never again have to deal with the choir director.
Deleting all the bookmarks related to the school, the school lunch system, the summer choir camp, the credit-by-exam program, and the choir.
Composing a letter in my head to the choir director, excoriating her for keeping my child at a callback when she knew she had a fever of 102°, and then giving the lead in the school musical to an alto because we did not buy the part through contributions to the choir boosters. And choosing not to type out and send said letter.
I found out the last bit of news while driving home with Fourthborn and Fiancé, when I commented that the guy who had had such difficulty at his senior recital had done no better with his trio at graduation. Fourthborn said that his parents probably bought him that part, that if I had paid attention to the lists of contributors for the productions, those were the parents of the children who had the solos. And that was why Fourthborn never went out for choir, because she didn’t want to be compared to Firstborn and Secondborn, and she knew we didn’t have enough money to play the game.
I wish, in retrospect, that I had stood up to the choir director last spring when LittleBit was accepted [without audition] into the top choir, and we were told that she would have to participate in All State Choir tryouts and go to All State Choir Camp. That was the expensive fiasco where I spent $600 that we didn’t have, and made two 500+ mile roundtrips in four days, when my broken leg was still healing, and I didn’t even get to hear her sing because of a mistake on the handout.
I should have told her then that, as much fun as it would be for LittleBit to be in that choir, we couldn’t afford to play the choir director’s reindeer games. Because I don’t see that LittleBit got a whole lot of enjoyment out of the year. [Correct me, dear, if I am wrong.] Choir seemed to me to be about as much fun as having four daughters in puberty, none of them in sync, somebody always upset, and no chance to catch a breath.
But you know? It’s over, and time heals all wounds [if you let it], and it also wounds all heels. And I am not going to be the one who has to explain to He Who Cannot Be Finessed why the rich kids got the solos and the talented kids [not only mine; her best friend is another] got short shrift.
Nice matters. So I’m going to go sit in my room and pack boxes and listen to happy music until I stop wanting to bite somebody.
There she is, heading out into the big beautiful world...
- Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!