My youngest kid is graduating from high school, marking the end of this phase of motherhood for me. It's bittersweet.

6 hours ago 3

Jennifer young, her husband, and their three children all taking a group selfie

In 2005, my oldest son stood at the living room window and watched the big yellow school bus rumble past.

"Mommy, when do I get to ride the yellow bus?" he asked, his voice full of something I can only describe as pure forward motion. He could not wait to begin.

That was the start of nearly 20 years of firsts. And this June, I'm counting down to the last of the lasts.

I've watched all my children graduate from high school

Our four children graduated every two years like clockwork, beginning in 2020— the year the world shut down and my son's senior spring dissolved into lockdowns, canceled proms, and a postponed graduation split into four sessions, sitting six feet apart.

Two years ago, our third child crossed the stage. This spring, our oldest daughter finished college. And in a few weeks, our baby will receive her high school diploma.

Before she does, there is a whole season of lasts still ahead of us: prom, the senior boat cruise, the yearbook signing party. Each one is a milestone I have been looking forward to and dreading in equal measure.

I've long been celebrating firsts

For 20 years, I celebrated the firsts without fully understanding they were finite: first steps, first days, first friendships, first heartbreaks, first acceptances. They arrived one after another, and I met each one with my whole heart.

There were nine straight years of diaper changes, nearly eight years of breastfeeding, orthodontist appointments, science fair projects, and brown-bag lunches assembled at sunrise.

I walked the same sidewalks pushing a double stroller while holding someone's hand, four children in six years, a small parade of backpacks and permission slips, and lost socks. My dad, who died four years ago, once lifted my son onto his shoulders on the first day of kindergarten and carried him the whole way to school, a proud grandfather leading his grandson toward everything that was coming.

We celebrated everything: the championships, the honor roll certificates, and the long-awaited college acceptances.

I did not know that on the other side of all those firsts was a last

This June feels different from all the Junes before it. The sounds of graduation at the high school are the same: the applause, the music, the laughter on a warm afternoon.

But I am not walking toward those sounds anymore. I am standing still, listening from a distance, understanding for the first time that this particular chapter of my life as a mother has quietly, completely closed.

I am not sad, exactly. Bittersweet is closer. I am proud in a way that has no adequate language — proud of four children who grew into people I genuinely like, who were shaped by a school district that saw them and a community that let them thrive.

Everything went by quickly

People say the days feel like years and the years feel like days. I have found that to be true. The years have collapsed into a blur I can barely separate until I pause long enough to feel the weight of it.

My bright-eyed baby is about to cross the graduation stage. Her oldest sister just crossed hers at college. The double stroller is long gone, and the sidewalk is quiet, and June sounds like other people's children now, which is exactly as it should be.

That is what 20 years of school has taught me: ordinary moments are not the backdrop to the important ones. They are the important ones. And if you are lucky enough to be present for them — really present, unhurried, paying attention — you will find that they were more than enough.

They were everything.