Home Grown

I swear it wasn’t that long ago that I had three kids under the age of 3. Sometimes it feels like it was just a few short months ago that I had a toddler wrapped around each leg and a baby in my arms. Only a couple of weeks back that all three could still climb into my lap together for a bedtime story. Just the other day that they were learning to pedal tricycles, ski down the bunny hill, and sound out words.

But somehow, now, my oldest has to bend slightly to hug me, and next week my not-so-little littlest wraps up her elementary school days in a place that’s been a part of our family’s life and daily routine for most of the last decade. She’s ready to move on – the kids always are by the time they’ve progressed from small kindergarteners to almost-teenagers. And I’m calmer about this milestone than I thought I might be, but I’m betting it’ll take a while before I get used to turning the other way, toward a different school, at the bottom of our hill for the daily drop-off and pickup.

I remember standing in the elementary school foyer on the first day of kindergarten for my older two children. Back then, I was used to preschool-sized kids who couldn’t quite pronounce their Rs and were still learning to tie their shoelaces. On that morning, as my two 5-year-olds stuck close to my side, a bit anxious about their first day in the “big school,” the 6^th graders seemed enormous and so grown up.

Now, of course, my perspective has shifted. I am used to (although sometimes still surprised by) the still-growing stature of my daughter and her 6^th grade classmates, who are all approaching or have already surpassed my height. But those kindergarteners seem so tiny – even if it sometimes seems like last week that my own kids were that small.  

The end of each school year is one of those times when it’s easy to contemplate the changes in our children. Some are moving on from preschool, others – who, really, were learning their shapes and letters in preschool not so long ago – are graduating from high school or (gulp) college. So, their growing up offspring is at the top of many parents’ minds.

When your children are babies, it seems as if everyone – parents of older kids, strangers in the grocery store – tells you to “enjoy every minute,” that it passes quickly. And, on some level, you know they’re right. But then you’re also in the midst of changing diapers and cutting food into tiny pieces and being woken at all hours of the night. It’s exhausting.

All that exhaustion fades into the background, however, when a small human, whose world literally revolves around you, hands you a bouquet of dandelions or blows a kiss from the outfield in a t-ball game or snuggles in with a favorite stuffy for a cuddle – or says in a voice impossibly sweet, “I love you, Mama.”

And the next thing you know, they’re asking for the keys to the minivan so they can go out with their friends. OK, OK, so we’re not quite there yet. But judging by how fast these years seem to go, we’ll get there next week. Or tomorrow. Or five minutes from now. 

Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay appears as Meghan's June 10, 2021 Close to Home column in the Littleton Record.

Memory Lane

I attended my 25^th high school reunion last weekend. Because my parents moved away about 20 years ago, I rarely have a reason to visit my first hometown. And because I wasn’t in any particular rush when I first arrived in town, I spent a bit of time driving around to once-familiar haunts.

As I cruised the streets where I spent my first 18 years, I found memories around every corner.

Although my first scheduled stop was the elementary school where I attended kindergarten through 5^th grades, I drove past the Route 9 exit that would have brought me most directly there, continuing instead for another mile or two so I could drive past the house where I grew up, a pretty 1720 Cape with dormered windows and enough memories to fill an entire book case.

There was the bedroom window where I spent many a contemplative moment looking out at the world. There was the garage whose doors I kicked the soccer ball against as I waited for winter to give up and the green grass of spring to arrive. There was the turn into the driveway where I came in too sharply one day on the way home from my paper route and crashed my Huffy bike and tore a hole in my new corduroys. There were the gardens, now reconfigured, my mother cultivated carefully for more than two decades.

Onward I drove, turning right onto Maynard Street, following my old jogging route. I’d forgotten how many beautiful old houses are tucked away there, carefully tended historic gems set among much newer houses. I let my whims guide where I turned the wheel, and my meanderings led me past the bank where I opened my first savings account, the library where I checked out my first borrowed books, and around the corner to the YWCA where I went to preschool. Tucked under a tree was a fenced-in area containing an assortment of colorful toys scattered around a plastic slide where the latest generation of preschoolers plays.

I drove past my old schools and the church where I attended mass the Sunday mornings of my childhood, the house where one of my first best friends lived, the sidewalks where we rode our bikes together to get penny candy and bubblegum downtown. I maneuvered my way around the center-of-town traffic rotary, which seems more perplexing after so many years away, and traveled along the narrow, winding road where I once got too close to the edge and took off the side mirror of my little pickup truck.

Along the way, I thought how strange it seems that a place I haven’t much visited in the past 20 years can still seem so familiar, despite the growth and changes, the new malls and altered storefronts, the high school that seems twice the size as it was when I last walked its hallways to make my way to physics class or senior English or the gymnasium where our rainy-day graduation was staged.

Despite being a self-proclaimed sap, I’m not generally sentimental for my first hometown. This trip I felt a bit of a tug on my heart, though. Maybe because I was traveling by myself, without the banter and many questions of children coming from the backseat – so, left to my own meandering thoughts.

Although I have been away from Westborough for longer now than the time I called it home, this is where I come from. We don’t get to choose where we live as children, but that place – and the people within it – certainly shapes us.

In that way, I am lucky to have spent my early formative years here, where I landed in a class of kids who were good and smart and funny. Because I lived in the same house in the same town from birth until college, and because lots of my classmates did, too, many of these people are kids I grew up with, from preschool through elementary school and on to middle school and high school, from kiddie soccer to varsity, from diapers to drivers’ licenses.

We knew each other when we were all still figuring out who we were, when we were people perhaps different from whom we have become many years later. I suppose, in essence, the spirit of the kids we were all those years ago is still there in our 40-something beings. It’s why we tell each other we look the same as we did then – because we can still see the 17-year-old within, still remember how we laughed and cried together, even if we no longer remember the cause of specific emotions. 

I was reminded of how good and smart and funny my classmates were during our few hours together Saturday. Like most people, I’d guess, I keep in touch with a few friends from high school, although we mainly see each other in glimpses on social media. Getting together Saturday felt a bit like when grownup siblings reassemble for occasional family dinners. Around the expected small talk, there was banter and good-natured bickering and – our sixth grade English teacher would be so proud – a spontaneous group sing of the Preposition Song.

There was no sorrow in the parting, just gladness in having seen each other. At least that’s how I felt as I bid goodbye to old friends and acquaintances, and as drove away the next morning, having spent the night with a friend and classmate who still lives in town. I passed my old house one more time, turned onto the road that is a shortcut to the highway, and headed north. Toward home.

Original content by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul, posted to her blog, Writings From a Full Life. This essay also appears as Meghan's Close to Home column in the November 10, 2017 issue of the Littleton Record.

Beyond Preschool

There was a time, not all that long ago, when I could claim I was the mother of three children under the age of 3. It was something of a badge of honor, a sort of twisted brag uttered in sheer exhaustion. Well, school ended this week, and I can no longer claim to be the mother of even one preschooler. I am now the mother of two 2^nd graders and a kindergartener.

The end of each school year marks a new milestone in the march toward growing up. I can clearly see, at the dawning of summer vacation, how my children have grown – in stature, knowledge, and ability – since the start of the school year. The conclusion of this year marks a particularly big change for our family, as we say so long to a place that has nurtured my children through their earliest classroom experiences.

Each school day for the past four and a half years, I have driven down a bumpy back road along the Gale River to deliver a child – or two, and for a short time all three together – to preschool. In the time my family has been at this school, the faces of the children and the parents and even some of the teachers have changed, the fields of the farm on which the school sits have been brought back to a life of growing food, and my kids have skipped and played and grown in this sacred little center of learning.

In four and a half years as a preschool mom, I have changed, too. In the beginning, I was the nervous, first-time-at-preschool parent, walking through the door with a 3-year-old grasping each hand. All the other kids, older than my son and daughter then, seemed to know the routine. All the other parents seemed unbothered by leaving their children here, in the small, bright classroom with the kid-sized chairs and tables, and going about their lives for the day, while I was a mess of nerves and emotion.

Soon, of course, we all learned the routine of preschool. And in what has become one of the things I most cherish about this place, we were welcomed into the family, a family that changes every year as the 5-year-olds move on to kindergarten, the younger children grow into the role of “big kid on (preschool) campus,” and new students arrive with their own nervous parents in tow.

Children seem to take these transitions – finishing another year of school, reaching the next birthday, learning some new skill – in stride. For parents, though, the waning of one phase of childhood into the waxing of the next can be a bit emotional. Each milestone our children reach marks the beginning of something new and, hopefully, good – but also the ending of something else. My littlest one was a baby when her siblings started preschool, and it is not easy for me to let go of this phase of my family’s growing up, even as I want nothing more than for my children to continue to learn and grow and be happy in their next steps.

This week, I made that journey to preschool for the last time as a parent of a preschooler. I’m sure we’ll come back for an occasional visit. But come fall, my daughter will head to the “big school” with her older brother and sister, who remember their preschool years fondly, but have moved on to other teachers, other friends, a bigger playground, school lunch, reading and adding and learning more all the time about the world around us.

It is strange knowing that I will not travel this road every morning and afternoon next year, not walk up those five wooden steps and through the door to greet the teachers and discover the fun morning activities of the day. This has been a happy place for each of my children, and I will forever be grateful that they started school here, with these teachers, these families, in this place.

On the first day of kindergarten at the end of summer, I will once again send my baby into a world that is unfamiliar, new, sometimes a little scary (sixth graders are considerably bigger than kindergarteners, and they share the hallways). Once again, she will navigate some of this new world on her own, but she’ll also have her big brother and sister to show her the ropes – at least during recess and school-wide activities – just as she did when she started preschool.

Someday, I’m guessing long before I’m ready for it, I’ll be able to claim I am the mother of three teenagers. But that’s too far down the road of life to think of now. Kids grow up too darn fast, as every parent knows, and it’s officially summer vacation. I’m heading out to play with my three grade schoolers. Summer, after all, is as fleeting as childhood.

Original content by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul, posted to her Blog: Writings From a Full Life. This essay also appears as Meghan's Close to Home column in the June 13, 2014 edition of the Littleton Record.

Graduation ~ Moving On

It is graduation season, and the predictable beat of Pomp and Circumstance resonates from school gymnasiums as students everywhere march toward the next phase in their lives.

Last week marked the 20^th anniversary of my high school graduation. Next week my two oldest children will “graduate” from preschool. All around our region this month, students are making transitions – from middle school to high school, high school to graduate, college student to work force.

I have only a vague, time-warped memory of my high school commencement – a white polyester gown to go with the tasseled cap, friends and family gathered, the rain that moved the ceremony from the football field to the gym at Westborough High School. 

In an attempt to recollect my thoughts of that day, I dug out my old journal last week. The entries surrounding graduation are filled with the words of mixed emotions: excitement, fear about the unknown future, disbelief that the first 13 years of my schooling were coming to an end and that I’d soon be leaving the only town I’d called home for a college six hours away.

“I don’t quite know how to feel – excited, scared beyond words, nostalgic,” I wrote in neat lines of cursive. “At the same time, I feel free, invincible – you know, like an 18-year old… So much is changing, and change may very well be my greatest fear!”

What struck me most as I read those words two decades after writing them – beyond the revelation that I once had such neat penmanship – was the anxiety that seemed to overshadow the celebration. It reminded me that graduation – whether from preschool or middle school, high school or college – marks both a beginning and an end and is both celebratory and wistful.

Like any major life change there’s likely something worth holding onto in the old and something wonderful to look forward to in the new. The trick is that you may not realize what those things are at the moment of transition.

Two years ago, as I prepared to send my children to school for the first time, I was torn between the freedom preschool would allow me to do more work, to regain a small sense of flexibility, and the terrifying knowledge that I was delivering my children into a world completely unknown to them.

I was a mess of nerves as I shepherded them out the door toward that first morning, and by the time we’d loaded up the family minivan for the short drive to school, I was shaking. Partly I was anxious for these shy, reserved, precious babies who had never been cared for by anyone other than their parents and grandparents. And partly I was conflicted between wanting them to go and wanting them to stop growing up so dang fast.

My little boy, who had eyes only for Mama, jumped right in, with barely a backward glance to see if I was still there. For my little girl, who is strong in so many ways, the transition involved lots of tears, plenty of drop-off clinginess, and my heart breaking a little bit every day.

The preschool my children attend is amazing, with great teachers, good kids, and lots of exploration of both ideas and the world just outside the schoolroom door. When you’re 3- or 4- or 5-years-old, school is a fun adventure, a combination of short bursts of focused learning, blissfully messy art projects, and playing with friends.

For the lucky students, schooling – and life in general – remains an adventure, an exploration, a joyful experiment. Of course, there are also tests, long papers to write on topics that may not captivate you, teachers you might not get along with, and homework, just as in life there are challenging projects, difficult co-workers, and too-long days on a stressful job.

I’m more than twice the age I was when I graduated high school, with 20 more years of living added to my resume of life experience. And my preschoolers are nearly kindergartners. They can count to 100 – by ones or tens – and spell their names in uppercase and lowercase letters. They’re learning to read. They can pump on the swings and hit a baseball off a tee and ski expert runs. They’re still shy and reserved among people outside their inner circle, and silly beyond belief with those they know and trust.

Next year, they’ll probably be a little timid at the start of kindergarten, in “the big school,” and I imagine I’ll be a bit of a wreck, again, on the first day of school. It won’t surprise me if I shed a tear or two as my children once more enter an unfamiliar world with new people and new rules, the next phase in the long process of growing up.

But they’re excited, too, and they’ll figure it out. Just as the kids moving up from 8^th grade will learn the ropes of high school. Just as the ones graduating from the high school or college this spring will bask in the glow of accomplishment and the excitement – and uncertainty – over whatever comes next.

No matter if you’re a 5-year-old starting off in a new school, an 18-year-old moving beyond the familiar parameters of high school, or a parent watching a new phase unfold for your child, the change marked by graduation can be both scary and exciting. But we usually adjust, and with a little luck and some work hard, we can grow and thrive.

At the end of my first college semester I had achieved the two big goals I’d had - earning good grades and a spot on the varsity soccer team (where I did a fabulous job of warming the bench) at Ithaca College. From the old familiar comfort of home, between semesters, I added these words to my journal: “I nervously moved away from all that was familiar and secure and jumped head first, anxiously into the world between childhood and adulthood known as ‘college.’ I have met so many new people and friends and have continued to grow and learn.” Life after graduation, it turned out, was pretty good.

To everyone graduating this year, whether from preschool or high school or college or anything in between and beyond – congrats, good luck, and here’s hoping you love the life you find as you move on.

A version of this essay appears in the Record-Littleton this week.

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