August is the New September

My office desk and kitchen island are competing for the “most chaotic” award right now. Strewn with moving checklists, handwritten to-do lists, gift cards, thank-you notes, and a half dozen organized piles containing everything from notes for my book to forms that need to be dropped off at various places, they are a snapshot into the insanity of August.

Years ago, when my kids were still in elementary and middle school, September was the month every parent dreaded, with its back-to-school forms, curriculum nights, and fall activity start-ups. A favorite writer of mine, who signs her articles M. Blazoned, wrote an article that I would pull out every year (because, of course, I had a paper copy then), and I would laugh until I cried, her words hitting me differently each year.

I have noticed that the specific hell of September has slowly shifted into August as my kids have moved from high school to college to emerging adults. And the dread preceding it has leaked into July.

In the weeks preceding our trip, this chaos seemed light-years away, which allowed me to be with the bittersweet moments of Rowan graduating as well as the gorgeous moments of our trip that just felt like stolen time.

Standing at the edge of the impending insanity of the next month feels like that moment at the tippy top of a roller coaster. The click click click of the ascent has stopped, and there is that hanging moment before the terror-filled thrill of the 10-story drop, anxiety, excitement, fear, and delight colliding with uninhibited shrieking, laughter, and tears. That’s about where I am right now.

What task needs to be accomplished first? Does Rowan feel ready for college? Is Isabelle excited for her new apartment? Is Grace’s new apartment safe, and will she be okay living by herself? Have we prepared them for these next steps?

It’s a lot.

I can take a breath, write another list, make a few phone calls (or guide them through learning how to do it on their own), but I still end up lying awake at night asking the questions.

Can we execute all of the moving pieces smoothly? Does everyone feel they are getting the attention they need in these milestone moments? Am I taking care of myself in all of this? And don’t even get me started on the quiet finances of it all. Math gives me a headache on a good day.

It’s funny that when I look back at those years where M. Blazoned’s article resonated so much - the piles of back-to-school forms and those dreaded curriculum nights that were enough to drive my Tennessee cousin to drink - I remember them with near nostalgia. The friendships that have persevered through it all. And the delight or relief of one of my kids getting the perfect teacher for their needs. Even the rush of volunteering, even if I had no idea at the time that I was abandoning myself in the process!

She was not wrong; the stress and expectation of September was enough to bring any sane parent to their knees. And now, that special acknowledgment is reserved for August instead.

After 22 years of back-to-school, I can say with a certain amount of wisdom that while there may not be a fix and the insanity may just shift flavors rather than be contained, there is something to be said for growing our capacity to hold many truths at once. It may not make the chaos go away, but it can allow us to be a lot more present and grounded through it all.

As I sit here waiting for my stomach to drop from the fall, I can also take a deep breath and enjoy the view. Rowan is going away to college. Isabelle is moving out and into an apartment with friends. Grace will be moving into an apartment by herself. And Steve and I will be with them as much or as little as they need every step of the way. I have no doubt that my heart will feel like it’s been shredded come 6 weeks from now. I also know that at least a small part of that will be because of small bursts of joy and pride along the way.

These are the moments; this is the goal. Happy, healthy, safe, and productive humans. And I will take the chaos that produces this every single day.