It’s official.
Somewhere.
Somehow.
Someway.
These two beautiful girls just started their senior year at college.
I almost cried a little as I just typed those words.
The last day of summer came and went and took with it dreams of Nantucket and picnicking and movie marathons and snowcones and late-night discussions in the backyard with marshmallows and chocolate and fireflies.
Yes. It’s true.
SENIORS 2025 here we come.
We just finished a flooring project upstairs and I spent the week cleaning out all the closets and in the very top of one of the closets in a box full to the brim of a lifetime of school stuff I found something I had forgotten all about.
There, tucked in among good neighbor certificates and fifth-grade math homework and faded flowers from an eighth-grade dance and cheerleader ribbons and drill team patches….
…I found something scrolled in hand-written cursive that made me laugh out loud.
So to celebrate senior year?
I had to share.
I hope it makes you smile, too.
After the twins were born, one evening I stood in the middle of my living room bleary-eyed from lack of sleep with hair that hadn’t been washed in a week, wearing pajamas covered in spit-up…..
…..and wailed plaintively to my mother.
“How can I do this?”
“I’m not going to make it.”
“They are totally winning.”
Then I wiped my face and brushed the hair away from my eyes, inhaled and exhaled several times and stood patiently waiting for her words of wisdom. I mean, after all, my mother is brilliant (and getting more brilliant with every year that passes) and experienced and wise….
….and has never met a good piece of advice she didn’t like.
But for once she didn’t say a word.
She just took one look at me and laughed.
And laughed.
And laughed some more.
And then she offered up this sage piece of wisdom that made my heart beat faster and my palms sweat and shivers run up and down my spine.
“This is nothing…..just wait until they are teenagers.”
That was 21 years ago.
But I’ve never forgotten it.
When they were little, sometimes I would look at those cherubic faces and sweet smiles and tiny hands tucked into mine and bright blue eyes that were full of wonder and joy. I’d listen to those little voices chirping out the funniest things that made me laugh out loud….
…..and think about what she said.
Was it possible?
Could they?
Would they?
A day would come when they’d roll their eyes at me and say things like “Whatever” and “I am so sure” and toss their hair and stomp their feet….
…..and demand a tattoo and jeans full of holes that cost $200.
And even though I worried, I thought I kept all these concerns to myself.
Truly.
I mean why borrow trouble? Why give anyone ideas about what might be ahead on the horizon? I wasn’t even sure they understood that sometimes being a teenager could be challenging for parents.
Until one day.
The day when the twins trooped into the kitchen whispering and laughing and hiding something behind their back.
“Ummm….mom. We have something we want to show you. Something to make you feel better. Something so you won’t worry about us when we grow up.”
Two sets of twinkling blue eyes looked at each other conspiratorially and then smiled at me with mischievous grins.
“This is for you, mom.”
It was a one-day-I’m-going-to-be-a-really-nice-teenager contract, written on a purple piece of construction paper scrawled in their own handwriting that read:
“I promise that I will try to be a good and nice teenager.
And if I am not….you may pull out this contract and show me.
I will try to be nice and kind to all people around me
and follow rules
and ten commandments.
Thank you for your appreciation.”
And at the end it was signed and dated.
Super official looking.
I wanted to laugh.
I wanted to cry.
I wanted to call my mother and tell her she was wrong because the next couple of years would be a breeze.
I mean….after all…..I had a contract, right?
But I didn’t.
I simply smiled and told them how proud I was and tucked that purple construction paper contract away in a drawer for safe-keeping.
And that was the paper I found in the top of the closet.
It stared up at me as the years rushed by in front of me.
Wonderful years.
Joyful years.
And just between us.
I never needed that contract.
They’ve followed the kind rule and obeyed a few of the ten commandments and made me one of the proudest moms on the planet.
But now?
When their senior year at college is finished, I need them to write another.
One about phone calls to their mother.
And checking in.
And saving stories for me.
And promising not to forget me.
And understanding that if they ever need a safe place to land I’ll be right here waiting.
Because I think somewhere in the contract….
…it says you can always come home.
PS Have a little more coffee left?
Here’s another story about growing up.
And one more for the road.
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