It dawned on me recently that my son graduated from high school fifteen years ago this year. His graduation ceremony was actually in May 2000, but I missed remembering the milestone last month.
As I reflected on his graduation (once I did remember it), I thought about the different directions I could take in writing this post. I could write about how his passage out of high school was a big step in my realizing that my kids were growing up. I could write about how difficult his senior year of high school had been for kid and parents alike and how we were all ready for the next phase.
But what seemed most important to me at this point in my life—and his—was a regret I have when looking back on his senior year. I don’t usually focus on regrets, because by their very definition, they cannot be changed, and it is better to move on. But this is one regret I do admit.
My son was quite accomplished in debate and forensics, and he participated in many National Forensic League (now apparently called the National Speech & Debate Association) tournaments for his high school’s team. He lettered all four years, and was very proud of the letter jacket we got him during his sophomore year (though in later years, it apparently was not cool for him to wear it). His junior and senior years my son qualified for the national NFL competitions. He brought back a trophy both years.
One of the events he participated in most years was dramatic interpretation, which I enjoyed far more than team debate. I judged a few local debate tournaments for his school, but the arguing over ridiculous tangents seemed totally unrealistic to me. As a lawyer, I wanted the debate focused on what was relevant to the issue under discussion. Like a judge would make me do.
In dramatic interpretation, two partners act out a skit. I saw the skit my son and his partner did his junior year. It told the story of two young men going through their military service. It ended with my son wounded and curled in a ball on the floor crying, “Mommy, mommy,” just as my son had done as a baby.
I was sitting in the front row, and my son was dying in front of me. It was all I could do to stay in my seat. I had to clutch the sides of my chair so I wouldn’t go comfort him—“I’m here, I’m here. I’ll save you!”—which would have embarrassed us both.
But I never saw my son’s senior dramatic interpretation skit. And that is my regret.
He didn’t much want his parents around his senior year, but I now believe it was my responsibility as a parent to insist that I go at least once to see him perform. I wish I had witnessed again his talent, as I had his junior year. I wish I’d had another opportunity to swell with pride and to think to myself, “I’m here, I’m here.”
Because, as a mother, I’ll always be there for him, at least in spirit. Even when he doesn’t want me to be.
What regrets do you have as a parent? Can you remedy them today?
