Moving Changes

The changes keep coming. Three days ago my first born moved out of our house for the first time and happily landed in her own apartment. It’s a bit ironic that she’s not the only one packing boxes. We continue to stash things away, getting ready for our own move across the country in a few weeks. It’s our season of change.

My sister texted me the day after my girl moved out. She asked me one simple question. “Was yesterday hard for you?” By then I had survived the first night of her being on her own, in her own grown up living space. It wasn’t an usual feeling, since she often sleeps over at a friend’s house. But just picturing her in the bed I bought for her, across town, in what is now considered her bedroom, just felt odd. Not necessarily sad (yet). Just odd.

I almost laughed out loud as I read my sister’s inquiring text. At the moment I received it I was flanked by situations. On one side I had Sam, telling me in great detail his latest dream, and wanting me to pay attention to every single detail, including hand motions.

On the other side sat our old family dog, sweet as the day is long ,but falling apart quicker than I am, as she passes middle age. She’d been having some troubling doggie symptoms and I knew a call to the vet was imminent. I could only hope it wouldn’t cost more than the balance of my checking account.

I knew that after Sam finished his story, and after the vet was called, there was a list of six other things I needed to get done, including calling Colorado to check in with my significant other, who has been out there for two weeks now. The gravity of this life milestone my daughter had experienced was quickly lost in the craziness of our own life details.

I was more than happy to see my daughter again, as she showed up later that day to pick up some more items from her bedroom. She so lovingly took the time to compliment her littlest brother on how well his personal effects looked in her old room. She hadn’t been gone three hours before he had claimed that big, vacant bedroom as his own. At least for the three weeks he has left in New York.

It was fun to dig through my kitchen cabinets and give her all of the duplicates I’ve collected through the years. Every pasta strainer and mixing bowl that I could give her was one less thing she’d have to buy for herself. This is when it pays off that both of us are moving at the same time. She was thrilled to get my leftovers and I was happy to clean out my stash before the moving truck arrives.

Then she moved on to the kitchen cabinets. As she pulled out her plastic bag and ‘shopped’ from my shelves, picking out spaghetti sauces and rice mixes, it brought back such familiar memories of doing the same thing in my mom’s cabinet, when I would go home to visit her during my college years. It was one of those surreal moments when you ask yourself, “When did I become the mom in this picture?”

And for a brief moment it made me miss my mom terribly, and being able to call and tell her about this moment. One of a million special moments I lost when she died 17 years ago.

My daughter loaded up her car, with boxes of kitchen supplies, bags of clothes, and piles of food, and she drove off. I didn’t let myself dwell on the fact that she was now forever on her own, out of my nest. It’s a day I’ve dreaded since she was a toddler and I realized just how much I enjoyed having her around. Through the years we’ve been the solo girls in the house. When the boys got loud and crazy and stinky, we could just look at each other and know we were not alone in this house full of testosterone.

And now it’s down to just me. Me and this pack of boys. Not that I love them any less. It’s just a different household, when four males sit around the kitchen table. Just as I seem to be guarding my emotions and don’t yet fully feel the loss that happened in my life this week, I cannot even comprehend how the sadness will be compounded when, in just five weeks, we drop off our second child to start his first year of college in a different state.

I’m losing two in two months.

I have no doubt that the tears will fall, when I finally drive away from New York for the last time, knowing my daughter is not tucked in her place in the back of our family van. In fact, I suspect there will be more than tears, there may even be sobs. Everyone in our family is going through huge transitions. Most of them are good.

But that doesn’t mean parts of the process don’t tear out a mother’s heart.

Young adults are supposed to move out and support themselves once high school is over. Young adults very commonly haul their belongings into unknown dormitories and begin their new independent college lives apart from their parents. Lots of dads get new jobs and move their families to new states.

It’s just our family who find it necessary to do it all at the same time.

Favorite Places

A few weeks ago I woke up on a Saturday morning and realized we had nothing planned for the day. There was no reason to rush out of bed. A cool breeze was coming through the window. It felt wonderful to pull the covers up and tuck myself deeper into my bedroom nest. Soon I was joined by my youngest, who still loves to snuggle while we watch TV together. As he easily settled in next to me, and I rested my chin on his tousled hair, all seemed right with the world.

The stress of selling this house, and finding new lodging out in Colorado totally disappeared. Our life no longer revolved around homework and school obligations, it was finally low key summer time. And tucked into that soft cocoon with my boy, watching Spongebob’s antics, I found myself wishing that time would stand still. As I pondered that idea, I realized that snuggling in my fluffy king sized bed is one of my favorite places to be.

You’d probably get a wide variety of answers, if you asked a hundred people on the street, “Where is your favorite place to be?” Some might say a beach on a tropical island. Some might say a dark movie theater, watching a blockbuster movie. Many of my library friends might say being curled up on a couch with a good book is the best place to be.

I enjoy all of those places but if I had to be honest, and name my truly favorite places, they’d almost always involve the people I love. Maybe it’s because we have rarely lived near our extended families, that being in their presence seems so important. The fact that hubby and I both come from large families also means that when we can manage to pull everyone together, it’s a rare day indeed. So here are a few of my favorite places to be. I’ve been lucky enough to experience each of these places in the past few years.

I’d have to start the list with my own children. As crazy as it sounds, some of our best memories have been made when we’re all trapped in the van together. So on the top of my list of favorite places, is the passenger seat of our Caravan. When hubby’s at the wheel, navigating us down new roads, as we find new adventures, and the back seats are filled with all four of my children, life is very, very good. Oh, my kids bicker sometimes. They’re normal siblings with normal frustrations and issues, but many times, when we’ve left the distractions of friends and TV behind, we can get into a really good groove. They let their guards down and start creating inside jokes with each other. They start, just for those frozen moments of time, to act like they’re friends. I could live in that place forever.

Next on my list of favorite places is sitting in a lawn chair around a fire pit. Some of my best life memories have been made in this place. We built the relationship that turned into our best friends in Utah, around the fire pit outside their back door. Just last weekend I sat across from some of my favorite relatives, at a campsite in NH, and we laughed and talked while campfire smoke seeped into our clothes. Once darkness falls, and faces are lit up by the flickering fire light, people open up and become their truest selves. A guitar in the background is just icing on the cake, and I’m never really ready to leave that chair and head back to our tents.

A related location, when it comes to our east coast life, is my mother-in-law’s backyard. Every time I visit her house in New Hampshire, whether I’m sitting at a picnic table or throwing a few hands of horseshoes, I’m in a happy place. The kids run free and mix with cousins who are like best friends. I get to catch up with brothers and sisters in law. We all get pampered by Grammy, who knows every person’s drink of choice. Time does seem to stand still when we enter that grassy field, bordered by shady trees. Kids and grownups alike play endless games of ladder ball and bocce ball, then we all gather together for one big game of wiffle ball.

I’ve only had scattered visits from my family, who are all spread out across the country. Almost two years ago we all gathered in Missouri, for a sibling reunion, and every minute I shared with them in that hotel conference room we used as our gathering spot was treasured time. I got to play cards with nephews and nieces I hadn’t seen in years. I got to laugh with my siblings, as we so easily went back to childhood memories, each of us remembering them a bit differently. I hope to find more times like those once we’re back in that area of the country.

I’m constantly telling my middle son how much he reminds me of my brother and I look forward to the day that he knows what I mean.

So if I ever win the lottery or hit the jackpot on game show, and the prize is a trip to my favorite place on earth, I may shock a few people with my choice. I’d have to pass on the week in Tahiti and the tour of Paris. I’m sure those are lovely places, and I wouldn’t mind seeing them some day. But when it comes to truly priceless places, where I feel the most comfortable, I don’t have to look very far.

Every time I sink into a lawn chair, around a campfire with friends or in a yard full of kids I’m related to, I find myself saying, “Yes….now this is heaven!”

Campfire Love

Step by step this process of relocating to the other side of the country moves forward. We mark the milestones one by one and try to savor each one. It’s been a month of ‘lasts’, with more to come. My youngest son finished his last days of fourth grade, in a building that has been his academic world since kindergarten. My middle son finished his first year of high school in a building where both of his older siblings received diplomas. Our oldest son walked across a graduation stage in a cap and gown that are already packed in a moving box.

I said ‘see ya laters’ to co-workers who feel more like friends. My poor husband has said endless goodbyes, as he’s built a large network of professional acquaintances during our time in New York. And then today, one more huge step, flinging us into this new life that’s on the horizon. Very early this morning, before the sun even broke the horizon, I drove this man I love to the airport and said my tearful goodbyes. He is flying off to start his first chapters of our life in Colorado, as he starts his new job this week.

It surprised me how big that one goodbye felt. I struggled to maintain my composure as I gave him a last hug. We tried to make small talk, to crowd out the suffocating reality of what was about to transpire. Then he turned and made his way through the security lines, slipping off his shoes, emptying out his pockets, and raising his arms on cue.

At that moment I couldn’t help but think about how attached I’ve become to that man. I met him in a college dorm, in the early spring of 1987, having no idea he would become my life cheerleader. We had mutual friends and slowly found ourselves spending more time without them. Long lunches in the cafeteria became my favorite part of the day, as we discussed everything from religious beliefs to childhood experiences. It wasn’t romantic dinners at fancy restaurants that won me over. It was a patient listening ear, while eating turkey and cheese sandwiches off a plastic cafeteria tray.

After a few years of sharing friends, dreams, and travel adventures, he showed up in my dorm room one Sunday night, wearing a red pull over jacket that smelled of campfire smoke. One of the things that attracted me to him was his love of the outdoors, and that woodsy smell did more for me than any cologne ever could. A few hours later he proposed, and I was wise enough to say yes.

We had spent that weekend apart. I had to go home to help out my ill mother, and he had been on a camping retreat with our friends. As I lay next to my mother, who was recuperating from back surgery, I surprised even myself, as tears rolled down my face when I told her how much I missed not being with him, even for that one night. I think I knew at that moment that I needed this man for the long haul.

The ‘yes’ had come easily, when the ring was presented, 24 hours later.

There was a wedding, and more schooling, and then came children and jobs. A decade passed by, then another. A change in jobs led us to several cross country moves and more years rolled by. Life was not always easy, but we found our way together. We both lost a parent early on, and we almost lost a child. We’ve survived a decade (so far) of raising teens and what seemed like endless years of changing diapers. But we’ve done our best to cling to the friendship that started it all. We both adore our children, but we both understand that they are separate from us. The ‘us’ will always stand on its own and have its own place.

The ‘us’ is what keeps us sane.

So now we come to this place, where circumstances dictate a separation. In every other move we’ve made, we’ve all gone together. But his time is different. This time the house has not sold, and plans had to change. As we sit and wait for the special family, who will love this house as much as we have, to show up, the calendar page flips to July, and the new job calls. And I find myself at an airport, saying goodbye to this man I love. We will be apart for at least six weeks. We’ve never been apart for more than one week, and now the calendar will flip pages once more, before I see him again.

In all of the planning and scheduling, I knew, in my head, that this separation was coming. But it was all on paper. This past weekend I found myself in a lawn chair in New Hampshire, telling my sister-in-law our plans, and she turned to me and said, “You’re going to be apart for SIX weeks?” The tone of her question left a lump in my throat. Six weeks. Yeah, six weeks.

The reality of those words sunk in.

He left the family party a day early, to come home and pack. I stayed back to camp one more night with the kids. I missed him even that night, knowing our real goodbyes were coming in mere hours. The next morning we drove home, and I purposefully didn’t take off his red pull over jacket, that I’d borrowed for our camping trip.

It smelled of campfire smoke.

And this time I wanted to be the one who showed up, smelling of the outdoors, and proposing my love for a lifetime.

Beginnings and Endings

Today I watched my son graduate from high school. I was in this exact same spot one year ago, when our first born made her way across the stage. And yet, just as they have been so very different in their eighteen years of growing up together, their high school finalities were also very different.

We thought we’d have an advantage this year. Last year we read all the handouts and mapquested all the locations, figuring out the graduation ceremony for the first time. It’s somewhat like throwing a sweet sixteen party, or being in charge of a bridal shower. There is much to know, that the first timers have to learn, either by reading, researching the internet, or being guided by those who have gone before. Then, once you’ve survived all the steps the first time, you feel confident, much less like a rookie. You go into the next experience feeling like you somewhat know the way.

But, just our luck, the system changed this year. It was a new venue, a new set of details to figure out. We felt like the newbies all over again. And even this year’s successful navigation won’t add to our expertise, as we are preparing to move two thousand miles away. Our last two sons will most likely graduate from high schools in Colorado.

Three years from now, we’ll start all over again.

But as much as the set up was different - the parking, the seating, the place we met up after the ceremony, the system for tracking down his actual diploma - the feelings were very much the same. The swell of emotion every time that crowd of gown-draped kids cheered, radiating the excitement of their accomplishment. The struggle to maintain my attention span, as speaker after speaker shared thoughts on the day. The pride I could hardly contain when my boy’s name, the same name his grandfather carried, ricocheted across the auditorium.

It’s all part of the graduation package.

There are times that I wonder if we’ve cheated our children somehow, by moving to different states, several times in their childhood. Many of my son’s friends have known each other from elementary school. Some even shared classrooms and playgrounds in their preschool years. My son will never know that feeling.

But just when I start to beat myself up about my son’s transient life, I hear familiar names. Kids he’s run track with for all of his high school years. Kids he’s hung out with at countless movie nights and sleepovers. Kids who’ve walked through my house, smiled their huge smiles, and answered me so politely when I’ve quizzed them about the details of their evening plans. My son has connections here.

One of the benefits of all the moves he’s made in his lifetime is adaptability. He knows how to walk into a new school, a new classroom, and soon a new college, and hold his head high. He knows that a friend is always somewhere on the other end, and that if you put yourself out there, relationships will follow. He will carry many New York friends with him, in spirit, as he ventures across the country to start his college career in a West coast school. He’s already figured out who else is going West, and planned ways that they can all find each other in the months to come.

Facebook and texting are a gift of the times. He will never have to ‘dig up’ old high school friends on Facebook. They’re already there, and will continue to be a part of his life, even two thousand miles away. As he plows his way through yet another new school, and more new classrooms, he’ll build his friend base. He’ll collect more like minded people into his orbit, and find his way into new adventures with them. They won’t replace his old friends in New York, they’ll only add depth to his already rich life.

We have a lot of transition in our life right now. We’re still knee deep in selling a house we’ve grown to love. We’ve lived in this house longer than any other since we began our cross country moves ten years ago. There are marks on the wall that show the inches (and feet!) our children have grown, since we first set up our beds in this structure. We’re very ready to make our move to a new state, but I never underestimate how hard it will be to walk away from this house.

Today I still have four children living under my roof. In two weeks my oldest will move out, into an apartment with a friend. A month after that, we drop off our newly graduated boy at his college dorm. And suddenly we will be a family of four. The last time we were a family of four was fifteen years ago. It will be a mind boggling adjustment.

But as I saw once again today, life is about beginnings and endings. This boy, who landed in New York five years ago as a tiny, timid eighth grader, marched confidently across a graduation stage today.

Life moves on. We move on. And as Helen Keller once said, “Life is nothing, if not a daring adventure.” The gown has now been tucked in the closet, the tassel packed in a box.

My boy is quickly wrapping up his experiences in New York and mentally moving on. I guess I should follow his lead.

I guess it’s time for the next adventure to begin.

Life Rewards

At the end of a busy day, we made our way through the crowded hallways and found seats in the high school auditorium. We’d received a letter in the mail, informing us that our son was to receive an award of some kind and we were invited to attend the senior awards ceremony. We had no idea which award it might be, but as we waited for the festivities to begin we made a game of narrowing down the choices.

To begin with, we crossed out all the drama/theater awards. Our boy was not involved in any variety of the performing arts, beyond attending occasional movies with his friends on a Friday night. Then we moved onto music awards. No to the drum and fife award. No to the jazz band award. No to the orchestra honors. Our boy loved playing the trumpet in fifth grade, but had not pursued it on the high school level.

Now we were down to academics and sports. We both knew which category we should be alert for. Our son studies hard, and he’s very diligent about disappearing up to his room every school night, to plug away at assignments and projects. He has good grades. But we all know that good grades don’t win awards. Wonderful, perfect, top of the line grades do. So we were down to the one category. Sports.

My son has always loved to run. As a six year old, he and his father used to take a one mile run together every morning. He looked forward to it every day. He was born into a track and field heritage. A handful of his uncles set records in high school, and one even attended UVM on a track scholarship. It didn’t surprise me that one of my boys took to running not long after he’d learned to walk.

He was thrilled to have the chance to join the high school track team, the first year we lived in New York. He was just an eighth grader, but the older guys and coaches accepted him with open arms and boosted his confidence with endless encouragement. Five years later, he’s the one who takes the little kids, full of spirit but not so much muscle, under his wing, and encourages them to do their best, in every race. It did not surprise us that the award he received had nothing to do with theater, or music, or proficiency in a specific subject, but rather was a testament to his first love - running.

He walked away from that night with a plaque honoring him for having the most varsity letters. Five seasons of track, three seasons a year, slowly adds up.

But as I sat through the ceremony, clapping for many other deserving award recipients, I had conflicting thoughts and emotions. A lot of the awards were handed out for truly amazing accomplishments. As the lists were read, outlining the reasons a specific student received a specific award, it almost didn’t seem real. Was it even possible that one student could be in so many clubs, volunteer at so many charities, participate in so many school activities, and still get perfect grades? I had to fight the twinge of inadequacy that snuck in. And to be honest, the feeling of a shortfall had nothing to do with my son.

I was taken back to my own high school years. I attended a very large high school in Missouri and served as a student council officer for several years. But I was far from the star students who got the top awards. I plugged away and got good (not great) grades. I spent my after school hours working at a retail store, to save money for college. There was no time for volunteering, or clubs, or theater productions. But I’m okay with that.

I found myself, and my purpose, in those after high school years.

I think a lot of people do. I know many people who did marginally in high school and then found really great lives in their adulthood. I have the greatest respect for those kids who walked across the stage last week to receive their much deserved honors. But I couldn’t help but think there should be other types of awards too.

Awards for kids who helped their families through a life crisis.

Awards for kids who worked several jobs so they could eventually attend some kind of college.

And kids who have been solid, trustworthy members of their families - taking out the trash, mowing the lawn, and doing what’s expected of them (most of the time) without complaining.

Here’s the one my son would have been a shoe in for:

“The All Around Good Kid Award:

This award will be given to a student who has proven himself in character and trustworthiness. He has been an upstanding brother to his younger siblings and an important part of a strong family unit. He has adapted exceedingly well to three cross country moves. He has been compassionate to a brother in need, giving much needed hugs in the form of living room wrestling matches. He’s graciously handed down countless cool clothes and toys, including millions of Lego pieces and remote control vehicles. He can always be counted on to be polite to adult friends and relatives and his smile and companionship keep his mother inspired. His tender heart (which he doesn’t like to talk about) and sturdy nature (including many survivalist skills)will take him far in life.”

I know that no such award exists. At least in the real world. But I also know that my son will leave high school as a solid citizen of the world. He’ll make a difference to the people around him and find his own path to a good life. That means more to me than any award he could ever receive.

What's in a Name

I’ve always liked my name. The older I got, the more I realized that it really fit me. Until the day I walked down that long aisle, I introduced myself as ‘Judy Johnson’. It was very sing-song and alliterate. It was easy to remember. It was unique, and yet not strange. It was just what I desired to be, as a person. The day we said our vows, I lost my sing song ending, but hung onto it as a middle name, because I never wanted to forget the person I was before two became one.

Having named four babies in my lifetime, I can appreciate how tricky the task can be. We’ve all met people who don’t seem to fit their name. A Bob who looks more like a Steve. And we’ve met people who seem to perfectly fit the name their parents so wisely bestowed upon them. My son Isaac, has a name that means ‘laughter’, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that his quick wit makes me laugh every single day.

But in the last few years I’ve started to notice that no one uses my name anymore, when they’re picking out just the right title for their newborn daughter. It never shows up on popular baby name lists. In fact, it hasn’t for decades. I think working at the library increased my curiosity. I started to notice the names of the little patrons who showed up for story time every week. There were many Sarahs, and Owens, and Emmas, but not a single Judy.

The more the idea turned over in my brain, the more I started to do some research. Every famous Judy I could find was over the age of 50. I started to think I might be the youngest Judy on the planet, as I currently hang out in the mid 40s. I found a name database online, designed by a parenting website. It’s a pretty nifty thing to play with. You punch in any name and it will tell you how popular it was, in any given year, from the turn of the century until today.

It was no surprise, I guess, that Judy hit its peak in the fifties. In the mid sixties, when I showed up, it was beginning to tank in popularity. Which explains why every character named Judy in a movie or on a TV show is nearing retirement age. It’s not a name given to the perky, beautiful teen character.

Which is why I got a bit excited when a new kid’s movie hit theaters recently. I’d been aware of the children’s book series named “Judy Moody”, and was very pleased that my name finally claimed a young character. But it was doubly thrilling when Hollywood grabbed onto it and put it on the big screen - ‘Judy Moody and the Not Bummer Summer’. My name, in the big lights!

Then a popular singer, someone who’s on the radio all the time (and my teens even have on their ipods!) gave birth to a baby girl last week. I almost missed the news of the baby’s name, since celebrity babies are not really on my daily radar. But flipping through a magazine I stumbled upon it. This music artist named her daughter Jude. Now I know…my kids have already told me, it’s not the same. But I’m going to claim this one. You can’t tell me that at no time in this child’s life, will someone slip, and in a moment of sweetness, call her Jude-ey. Which comes out of the mouth in the same way my name does. The name that hasn’t been popular since the fifties.

It’s coming back. I just know it. My sisters and I were all given names (Mary, Nancy, and Judy) that were popular at our births, but never seemed to be popular again. I’ve been pretty happy with mine. I’ve got a broad imagination. I can imagine that ‘Hey Jude’ was about a Judy, not John Lennon’s son, Julian. And I can ignore the fact that the other famous song to include my name, ‘It’s My Party and I’ll Cry if I Want to’, was released the year before I was born. I think it’s still a great name, worthy of a little more use.

So I’m starting to lobby friends and relatives who are of child bearing age. Are you looking for a great name, that’s widely recognized, but not yet trendy? Are you brave enough to start the trend to bring Judy back? There’s been a recent surge of old names that have become new again.

All of those Emmas and Margarets need some playmates with classic names too. It’s time to call their friend Judy for a play date.

Hair Cut

Today I cut their hair. It’s one of those family rituals that seems like it will last forever, like trimming fingernails and nagging about teeth brushing. Every month or so I start noticing stray hairs shooting out from behind their ears. The son with the shaggy cut starts looking more shaggy than usual. So I start warning them about what’s to come.

“Someday soon I’m cutting everyone’s hair,” I’ll warn at dinner one night. There will be groans all around. No one enjoys it, including me, but it’s a necessary evil if I want to continue seeing their eyes. Everyone gets to pick how long or short they want their particular style. Runner boy complains that his is too long when it’s long enough to pinch between his fingers. Guitar loving son wants it long, but not anything close to a mullet. Little guy goes back and forth between super short and long, curly and unruly.

Finally the afternoon arrives when it’s time. No more putting it off. No more ‘I’m too tired tonight’ or ‘but my friend is on his way over…’. We pull out the token stool and dig out the yard and a half of silk that we fasten with a safety pin around the first subject’s neck. We get set up in front of the TV, because it keeps my victim distracted and buys me some extra time.

Every once in a while there will be fussing, and squirming and enough complaining that I have to pull out my standard line, “Okay, if you don’t want to cooperate, I’ll have to take you to the lady…”

This line has worked since they were small. They have no idea who the lady is. I don’t either, for that matter. But when they were young we’d see hairdressers on television and I’d say, “See, that’s where some kids go to get their hair cut.” It all looked very fru fru and feminine to my rough and tumble boys. They really didn’t have any desire to go to that place where women sat with foil sticking out of their heads. So ‘the lady’ line continues to work.

As I was cutting my oldest son’s hair yesterday, just hours before he’d leave for his senior prom, it occurred to me that I might only have a few more opportunities to perform this service for him. He goes off to college in just a couple of months, and there are no guarantees that he’ll be home on a regular basis.

We are moving to Colorado, but he’ll be going to college in Utah. So close, but also a mountain range away. There could easily be times that he needs a haircut and has no imminent plans to travel home. Someday soon, my boy may indeed have his hair cut by ‘the lady’ (and discover she’s not so scary after all).

This shouldn’t surprise me. It’s exactly how I came to cut his hair in the first place. I started by learning to cut hair on his daddy, when we were both in college. We lived in the same dorm and shared a circle of friends. He was two thousand miles away from home and had never had anyone but his mother cut his hair (sounds familiar). So one day I offered. I had no idea what I was doing. This was back in the stone age, before the option of googling or youtubing existed.

I had to actually walk all the way over to the college library, pull out long drawers from a tall wooden cabinet, and flip through a series of yellowing 3x5 cards, to find a single book on the art of cutting a man’s hair. But, as it turns out, one book was enough.

There were bumps along the way. One memorable afternoon I was cutting his hair while three friends of ours sat on a bunk bed across from us. In the midst of the joking and laughing my scissors slipped. In an instant a huge chunk of hair was missing from the side of his head. He couldn’t see the shock on my face, since I was standing behind him. But all three friends saw. With our eyes we agreed to not say a word. One of them continued with the conversation and we moved forward.

Ten minutes later he was standing at the small mirror that hung above my roommates dresser. He took a quick look at the final product, then paused, and went back to inspect one side again. He moved closer to the mirror. The rest of us held our breath. “Hmmmm….what’s going on here?” he asked, innocently. The four of us burst into fits of laughter. We couldn’t help it. He was just so cute, trying to be polite about the fact that I’d carved a bald spot on the side of his head.

Maybe that’s one of the millions of small moments that I knew he’d be a keeper for life.

I continued to cut his hair, through college, in the week before our wedding, and then year after year as we moved through life together. It only seemed natural that I’d tackle our daughter’s hair, since all she wanted was long and straight. I could do straight lines. Then three little brothers followed, and having inherited their daddy’s hair, it seemed only logical that I’d cut their hair too. When the toddler wisp turned into shaggy preschooler locks, they joined in the line up on hair cutting night.

And now we’re at the other end of that line. I may be losing one of my best clients soon. Someday soon, in a sweet smelling salon in Utah, my oldest son may put on another woman’s silk cape and hand over his loyalties.

Or maybe it will be a pretty classmate who lives in the next dorm who offers to do the job.

Either way, it’s almost time to hand over my scissors. And I’m not so sure I’m ready.