Today is the first last day.
We’re no longer going to be able to answer the question on the Census that reads: “Do you have school age children?” (Do they actually have that question? Does the Census still exist, even?)
It’s the last senior year. Ally’s going to graduate. No more PTO meetings, back-to-school nights, class breakfasts.
All the clocks we own seem to be moving in time lapse photography. First she was 7 pounds and 2 ounces of adorableness with a full on head of hair, and then she was a beautiful, smart and funny 5’7 super star soccer player with an infectious laugh, a willful streak, and a big curiosity about the world. The life of the party.
It happens. In the time you can say, “Do you have your cleats?” they grow up.
It’s senior year. Emotionally, I’m a Jackson Pollock painting.
Here’s to you, Ally. Here’s to a great year, your last as a Brookline student. Here’s to you. And all you are, and hope to be. You’re everything to me. Love you, little girl.