This morning, on our last day of vacation on Long Beach Island, I set my iPhone alarm early so I could walk the four blocks to the beach to watch the sunrise over the Atlantic Ocean. I had told my son the night before about my plans, and he wanted in.So at 5:35 a.m., I nudged him gently awake, pulled a sweatshirt over him, and set off, his sleepy hand in mine, down to the shore. On the way, the lights in a bagel shop had just flickered on, so we stopped for a plain hot bagel for him and a steaming cup of coffee for me.
At one point on our walk, he noticed the moon, which had just begun to blend in with the brightening sky. When we got to the beach, we removed our shoes and walked along the damp sand, dipping our toes in the chilled water. The tide was low, and my son wanted to know why the water was so much farther out than when he had splashed in the waves all week. Drawing on my rudimentary knowledge of seventh grade oceanography, I explained how the moon acts like a magnet, pulling the water closer and then pushing it back.
As the sun began its daily ascent, coloring the sky an orange-pink and then daytime yellow, I marveled at how it seemed so unordinary, how this ritual of nature seemed more like a singular brilliant performance.
My son chased his extra-long shadow on the uninhabited beach. I snapped pictures frantically of him and the sunrise, afraid to miss even one second of these precious minutes before summer was over.
A few days earlier, I’d done the same thing, snapping away as my almost five-year-old navigated an oversized slice of pizza into his tiny mouth until he finally scowled, “Stop taking pictures of me, Mom!” Sheepishly, I turned my iPhone off and let him eat his pizza peacefully, without my persistent demands to “Smile!” “Say cheese!” or “Look at me!” But less than an hour later, I had whipped it out again. I couldn’t resist the ice cream on his nose or the victorious grin at the bottom of a formidable waterslide.
My frenetic picture-taking is annoying to him, but I don’t care. I need to capture every moment before he begins kindergarten next week.
Yes, kindergarten. As a friend posted on Facebook last night, “This stuff is getting real!” And this reality has hovered over my entire summer, making me nostalgic for changing diapers, cutting up his grapes into quarters, and even Yo Gabba Gabba. Ok, maybe not that.
But, to be fair, entering kindergarten is big. Kindergarten begins a twelve-year course, which, for my son, will commence next week and hopefully culminate in June 2027. I am delighted with the school we have chosen for him, and it was a pleasure to take him to Target to pick out an R2D2 lunchbox and Lightning McQueen backpack.
But the fact that he is part of the “Class of 2027” unnerves me: it places him in that “race to the top” or “race to nowhere,” but a race that I worry may move too quickly for him, and too rapidly for an amateur photographer like me.
I’ve been a teacher for 17 years. My first class of third graders turns 25 this year. (According to Facebook, at least one has a kid; I’m a grandteacher!). I know how quickly kindergarten will become first grade and all the grades after that. I have previewed his entire school trajectory: memorizing multiplication tables, dissecting a worm, visiting Washington DC on the 8th grade trip, and attending a prom. Suddenly, my son’s provincial world has blown up; he will be part of a force that is bigger than he.
But it’s also kind of cool. This person, created from our dust and love, will be part of a gargantuan machine, a working part of the American education system.
His standardized test scores will count toward national averages. He might be a whiz at math. He may enter science or writing contests that reveal vital truths and lead to important discoveries. I suspect that his current love of maps will translate into a love of geography and may compel him to travel to places his parents have never been.
My frenetic photography is less about capturing moments than freezing time altogether. And I know I can do that as well as the moon can stem the tides. I must settle for watching my little force of nature, my brilliant sun and son, as he creates his command performances. I will be the one holding the camera.
Lisa is a middle school English teacher who lives with her husband (whom she met on a teen tour) and her son (born in 2008). Lisa is also a stepmom to three teenagers. She grew up in Trumbull and, after stints in Boston and NYC, is happy to be back in Fairfield County, where there is much better parking. She also started her college essay coaching gig, ACCEPTional Essays, where she helps seniors in high school make their college essays pop out of the pack. She does a lot of volunteer work within her community at her synagogue and various organizations. She loves playing tennis and cooking and hates doing laundry and anything with mayonnaise. Her quest continues to find the best sushi in Fairfield County. You can view more of Lisa’s posts on Fairfield County Mom.
