Tonight I sat in a packed middle school gymnasium with 600 other parents. Everyone sat quietly as they listened to enrollment information pertinent to their incoming student. Teachers were introduced, schedules were explained and school traditions were emphasized. The school colors were predominant on walls and t-shirts worn by those leading the meeting. The evening was nearing conclusion when the guidance counselor took the podium.

You, Middle School Guidance Counselor, asked for those of us whose oldest child is just now preparing to enter middle school to raise our hands. I complied. You told us all to take a breath. As I did, I realized I might have been previously holding mine. You assured us our children would be well taken care of and guided through these years in preparation for high school. You shared your email and asked that we message you if there is anything special we needed you to know about our child. Or if we had information we felt compelled to share.

I could hear the creaking of Pandora’s Box as it opened.

Dear Guidance Counselor,

I need you to know the child sitting to my left is our eldest, the child who blew open the doors on the circus in which we now reside. He so changed life as I knew it that within mere weeks I knew I wanted to be a mom again. His little sister was born 17 months later. We now blame him hold him responsible for our family of six. He really was a cute baby.

Looking back, he actually looked like a jaundice-orange, cone-head alien. But he was OUR jaundice-orange, cone-head alien.

I need you to know I still worry the virus he had as a four week old, resulting in a spinal tap, will somehow rear it’s ugly head and have negative impact when he’s older. Because I’m like that. Stable but not really.

I need you to know he twirls his hair in one spot when he’s tired.

I need you to know he appreciates adult humor and laughs at things I naively assume should still be over his head. But he also lets me grab his hand and hold it for a split second when no one is around.

I need you to know when preparedness for high school was mentioned I nearly burst into tears in front of 600 relative strangers. Let’s slow the roll on this high school nonsense. We JUST pulled out of the Women’s Hospital with his seven pound body strapped in a much too large infant car seat. Besides, I’m still not fully committed to sending him to this school. It might not be exactly orthodox but I’m thinking two or three more years of elementary school wouldn’t exactly harm him.

I need you to know the Parent Teacher Organization sign up list mentioned during the meeting didn’t exactly make sense because I’m still trying to understand how we got this far removed from the days of cots at nap time. Goldfish at snack time. Fingers paints.

I remember driving this child around just after his birth and repeatedly hearing Fergie’s Big Girls Don’t Cry on the radio. I knew all the lyrics and every time I sang it, which was every time it was on, which was every five minutes all summer, he’d stop fussing. I remember singing it one day as I passed your school.

Oddly, he wouldn’t stop crying.

I need you to know my son makes fun of his sisters but wouldn’t stand for anyone else to do the same.

My child doesn’t understand why we don’t treat him like an adult. He’s 11, after all. Basically an adult. So he wants to be treated like one, he says. He’s quick to add he would still like a back scratch before I tuck him in at night. And please shut the closet doors because having them open freaks him out.

I need you to know it is four minutes from my home to my son’s grandparents house. We pass this school on our way. I vividly remember using this parking lot as a stopping point when I couldn’t take his crying and needed to stop to feed him. I pulled out my old trick of singing along to Big Girls Don’t Cry but he still wouldn’t stop crying. While Fergie thinks big girls don’t cry, this boy baby was an expert. I couldn’t imagine the thought of his tiny, two week old body having to wait three more minutes for food. Looking back, I realize how silly it was not to continue on my way. But he’s the first. The starter kid. The baby whose cry so pierced my heart I would’ve moved mountains (or repeatedly sung bad lyrics) to cease it.

I need you to know I’m considering homeschooling.

I need you to know I avoided lunch meat, soft cheese, sushi, alcohol, artificial sweetener, caffeine and excess sugar the minute I found out I was pregnant with him. The restrictions lessened with each baby, softening with his two sisters and loosening nearly completely with our fourth. His baby brother was delivered with a martini in his hand and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Kidding. He didn’t start smoking until he was four.

I need you to know I cried over breastpumps and bad latching and spilled bags of breastmilk and late night feedings. I remember taking him to the weigh-in area at our local hospital’s lactation department so frequently I knew all the women by name. Somewhere there exists a tiny, blue, dog-eared notebook with all his weights marked in pencil.

I need you to know I changed his diaper every time the line changed on those stupid, money wasting diapers with the color indicator. If the diaper was bone-dry but that line changed color, he got a new diaper. Every. Time.

I need you to know I mashed avacados and bananas and made homemade baby food from roasted sweet potatoes and sang to him and did all the meaningful and meaningless things ‘the experts’ suggested.

You should know I can gauge his mood in ten-millionths of a second. I know which eye roll means he’s irritated and which one means he’s about to break down in tears.

I think you should know he’s been borderline obsessed with World War II since he was in Kindergarten and I still haven’t found a balance between encouraging his love and keeping him from learning too much about the atrocities of the Holocaust.

You might need to know he is acutely aware his peers are all a head taller and some are quick to comment on his height. You may also need to know that I’m apt to burn down the house of any kid, teacher or parent who mocks him for his size.

Not really. Or maybe. Again, I’m stable but not really.

I need you to know that when I checked on him last night near 11 PM, his sleepy profile was that of his three year old face. Until my eyes focused, I was convinced time had shifted back.

Thank you, Guidance Counselor, for your promise the school staff will do all they can to make this a positive middle school experience. Thank you for the work you do to include all the mommas’ babies. Thank you for not calling the cops on the lady sobbing in her minivan in the parking lot.

Cause Fergie was wrong. Big Girls Do Cry.

Sincerely,

The mom who begs you not to judge her current tears for her first child or her shouts of joy when the fourth finally rolls through your school in 2026.

Spring is a beautiful time of new beginnings. I know for many of you this season means the conclusion of an era and achievement of big milestones, all while girding your heart for the absence that comes with an empty nest. As we reconcile the fact we can’t stop our babies from getting older, may we find solace in knowing our memories never age. Hugs to all of you who hear the ticking of the clock.