Welcome to Senior Spring. That’s what my heart feels, even if my head hasn’t caught up.
The azaleas are in bloom, the wind gusts through the open windows, and my legs are exposed regardless of the temperature at the Jewish Federation office (IFYKYK, as the kids say). Baseball is always on in the background, and if it’s not baseball, it’s golf, and if it’s not golf, it’s the distant hum of someone’s lawnmower. The air is sweet, and I can’t get enough of it, even if it makes me sneeze – and it does.
The season is intoxicating, and I relish the need to do nothing but lie on a blanket under a canopy of young leaves against an endless blue sky.
But, Senior Spring – that magical two months after the acceptance letter and before graduation, when expectations for performance have all been met – is not a thing for 40-year-old parents of three with two jobs, two dogs and a house. Contrary to every natural inclination to languish and bask and soak in the sun, the “Parental Spring” is one of over-commitment. It’s a time for final band concerts, classroom parties, field days, and graduations from 12th, 8th, 6th grade and below.
Tell me, is this what the wise King Solomon envisioned when he wrote his Song of Songs? Scan the first two chapters of this regal poetry and tell me, are the true words actually “Behold! The winter is past/The rains are over and gone/Now pile into the chariot so we can pick up a bag of Sun Chips to bring to the 4th grade potluck…”
I think not. But, boy, I’d love nothing more than to exude the same glowing insouciance as one who says simply saying “arise, my love,” kumi lach rayati, as opposed to “Your alarm wet off 30 minutes ago — and if you forget your xylophone before the spring concert, I’m not going to be the one to drive it up to school!”
Yes, the pace of life has picked up a bit since the Poet King was setting pen to paper. It feels that even royalty would not have a schedule that rivals that of the American parent in the springtime. Rarely have I felt such fellowship with a New York Times writer than when I read Rachel Feintzig’s plea, “Parents, Consider Underachieving.”
“I see you, parents who have been killing it this school year,” she wrote. “…Now it is spring, and while I admire your continued enthusiasm, I, for one, have very little spirit left. I am asking for your support. I am proposing that we all just give up, together.”
Yes, please.
I think back to my own (actual) Senior Spring, those many years ago (22 to be exact) when the perfect afternoon included a blanket in a field, a battery-operated CD player, sandwiches from Planet Sub and my closest friends.
That still sounds pretty perfect, actually – but add my children to the scene: a baby napping (she’s good at that), a toddler rolling in the mud (he’s good at that, too), and a tween playing basketball down the way. Not because he’s on a team; he just likes it.
Do you think we can agree that that sounds lovely? Can we agree that maybe, just maybe, the best thing for our children and ourselves is to enjoy the boredom and beauty of making ourselves at home in the shade, with cedars as “the beams of our house,” and “cypresses the rafters?”
If King Solomon was good at one thing (besides building temples, I guess), I would say that it was appreciating beauty. His Song of Songs, poetry that transcends faith and culture, is testament to the loveliness of place and time, the human body and tenderness. This isn’t the column to talk about the juiciness of that particular work, sexy as it is, but as parents, we can certainly appreciate its call to action: “Let us go early to the vineyards; Let us see if the vine has flowered…”
Let’s forget “Parental Spring” and show our kids what Senior Spring looks like, if even for one afternoon. They’ll still go to middle school if we phone it in on the end-of-year cupcakes, and they’ll still go to college if we don’t volunteer at their field day.
But the flower on the vine is fleeting. And so is the moment when they’ll tolerate laying on a blanket for the afternoon.
But first, I need to go make gluten-free brownies for the bake sale.
