The much-anticipated wind-down phase of the school year is part Olympic sprint, part turtles paddling through molasses. This home stretch should come with some kind of public health warning, such as: “During this time it is not unusual to experience alterations in schedule, sleep, mood, perceptions of reality, time and space, colloquially known as ‘Over It Syndrome.’”
Disclaimers aside, on the last day of school we will all temporarily exhale, rejoice and pat ourselves on the back. There may even be a tear or two of nostalgia. But make no mistake, these final weeks of school are a haul.
We’ve gone hard. The fresh folders and binders from August of last year are in tatters. The snacks have been downgraded from fresh fruit to fistfuls of goldfish and ice pops. The once trendy, shiny sneakers are in tatters and at least a size too tight, but who has time to shop and what size shoe are they up to now? Homework, that for a brief autumnal moment was completed at the dining room table with some modicum of parental engagement, is now an, “Are you done yet?” affair. Reading logs? Please. I’ll sign off on anything. Why? Because, as my son says about eating his vegetables, “I want to be done.”
I have long been an advocate of shortening the school year. Let’s be real, Memorial Day is the “official” start of summer. So shouldn’t our schools follow suit? Nine months is the gestational period for humans, and it would be so much more humane and satisfyingly symmetrical if the same rule applied for our school-aged babies, not to mention their parents and teachers.
The fatigue is real, on all fronts. And as if that weren’t enough, we’re looking ahead to easier, breezier, more attractive summer plans, while we’re still in a now suffocating relationship with the school year, which is coming to a close but apparently is not going down without a fight.
The calendar on my kitchen door, my inbox, my texts and my incessant, growing to-do lists perpetually remind me: “You are not done yet.”
It is the equivalent of the last .2-mile of a marathon. I’ve run one in my life and likely won’t do it again, for several reasons, most of which involve excuses and terror. But one hard-fought-for takeaway from the experience will always be the final stretch, which for me was up a very steep hill. I knew the hours-long run would be over in a matter of minutes but it felt like the most painstaking, impossibly slow-motion effort. Despite the mileage behind me and the encouraging cheers from the sidelines, my only thought was, “Really? This part has to be uphill? After 26 miles?” Yes, it did.
So, as you find your way trudging through end-of-year projects, concerts, art shows, field trips, field days, picnics, moving up and award ceremonies, and exasperating half-days…just remember, it’s the home stretch. We will blink and quickly yearn for the routine that served our kids and us so well…for maybe just six weeks or so too long. In the meantime, slap on the bravest, .2-mile-smile you can muster, high-five your fellow strugglers and hang on for dear life as we round that uphill home stretch!
