When my daughter talked about not attending her graduation, I said, “No. You will attend.” That is because I am a romantic. And I envisioned a grand moment during this momentous occasion. I am also a mother who happens to believe that I play the central role in all of my children’s greatest achievements.
I, not my daughter, wanted her children to watch their mother receive her diploma. I wanted them to appreciate the achievement of their working mother completing a master’s degree in Applied Statistics that she had started while her Adella, her eldest, was a toddler and finished while nursing Max, her third child. I was looking for that grand moment.
I planned it well. We played with the children the day before graduation at Hershey Park. They swam in the swimming pool at the motel that night. And Granma and Pop Pop plied them with donuts and McDonald’s the next day in the hours before the graduation. I had prepared for my moment. Not quite as much as Chrissy. But I had done my part.
I wondered, however, about the wisdom of bringing three small children to the center of Pennsylvania to watch their mother shake a dean’s hand when I saw the sea of mortar boards on the main floor of the Penn State Bryant Jordan Center. I knew it would be a long evening. The commencement speaker was thankfully succinct, the handshakes brief, and the announcer efficient. And yet there were hundreds of graduate students.
Pop Pop, Christian, the kids and I had a nice little perch in a handicapped balcony in the arena, which was designated for families. It had room for the stroller and gave the kids a little more room in which to move. We handed the kids electronics, doled out Sour Patch Kids (their favorites), and fed the baby a bottle. And yet, the line of graduates slowly moved forward like an interminably long inchworm. A surfeit of scholars. And Chrissy was in the last row of master’s students.
We made multiple trips to the bathroom, walked the baby back and forth, and got sodas from the concessions stand. My romantic vision quickly began to evaporate as I toiled in the trenches of childcare. The incongruity of hot dogs and pretzels amidst all the pomp and circumstance blew away any remaining glints.
Then Chrissy stood up. She turned. She waved. And Adella saw her. Adella waved back. I waved. For that brief moment we all connected, mothers and daughters. And I had the moment for which I had come.
Our moment was oh-so-brief. We then had to listen to the names of the doctoral students, and we made a few more trips to the bathroom and concession stand. We soldiered on. And by the time it was all over, we marked the occasion with obligatory but far too perfunctory photos, for Granma and Pop Pop still had to drive across Pennsylvania that night. The kids went back for one more night at their country home, as Adella calls hotels, and for a morning of splashing in the pool.
Driving that Tesla still requires some effort and thought and Pop Pop and Granma, who did not arrive home until 2am, were both very tired this morning when we got up at 6:30 to go teach.
“I’m glad we went,” Pop Pop said after a shower to wake himself up. “It was important to recognize Chrissy’s achievement.”
I, too, am glad. I think. If I weren't so tired, I would revel in the memory of my brief and fleeting moment. One that took years for which to prepare.
Yes, it was a moment to remember. I think. I am very tired, my mind is foggy, and I'm rushing to make it to my substitute teaching assignment. For you see, while Chrissy is taking a well deserved personal day with her family, I'm still taking care of her kids--her students, that is. Gotta get that BC Calculus quiz printed off before class.
Congratulations, Chrissy.
