The *Last* First Day · Storyflo

Today was the first day of the school year for both of my boys. For my younger son, it was his first day of high school. For my older, it was his last first day. His senior year has now officially begun.

We didn’t mark this day in any special way. In fact, my senior son slept over at a friend’s house so they could all get up early for “Senior Sunrise,” which is apparently a thing now.

So I didn’t even see my older boy before his last first day. (I did drive my younger son to school though!) And I won’t see either of them after their first day because I am currently en route to Kansas City for a speech.

Which is not something, I suspect, my senior is very emotional about. Because, unlike his dear old dad, he doesn’t trend toward the maudlin. Which is a good thing!

But this last first day has me turning inward — and, as is so often the case, thinking about myself. (I may be self-obsessed but at least I am honest and transparent about it!)

Because this last first day is the first of a series of lasts I know are coming for me (and my wife and my younger son) over this next year.

The last time he goes to the Homecoming dance.

The last time he plays soccer for his school.

The last time I drive him to a club soccer game.

The last time he asks my advice on where he should go to college.

The last time he goes to prom.

The last time he graduates high school.

The last summer before he leaves for college.

This is an incomplete list of lasts. Because, in truth, much of this year will be filled with lasts — big ones like those I named above and small ones that sometimes leave even more of a mark.

As I said above, I tend toward the maudlin about all of this stuff. And the slightly selfish. Ok, the very selfish.

If I am being honest, there’s a part of me that wants him to not go to college. To just live with us. Forever.

Which, in my more mature moments, I know is dumb and bad. Because this stage of life — bird flying nest, bird spreading wings, various other bird-related metaphors — is how it’s supposed to go.

I can remember — vaguely — being a senior in high school and wanting nothing more than to just GO somewhere else. To strike out on my own. To be, in a word, free.

And I know — even though he is too nice to tell me — that that’s probably how my son feels. In a few months, he will be old enough to vote and join the military. He will be, in the eyes of society, something damn close to an adult.

He feels that. And he chafes — usually in the most polite way possible — against bedtimes and curfews and annoying demands from his parents like making sure he drives slowly in our neighborhood.

Again, all TOTALLY NORMAL. Age-appropriate behavior! If he was acting in other ways — or making noise about not being interested about going to college or moving away from home — I’d be far more worried about that!

But, back to me. (HA!)

The school where both boys go has a very cool tradition. On the last day of the first week of school — more firsts and lasts! — the seniors who have been at the school since kindergarten walk hand-in-hand with the new kindergarteners in the opening assembly.

I remember — distinctly — when my now-senior was a kindergartener. And when his little hand was holding a senior girl’s hand during that opening assembly. (We have a photo of the handhold and it is PRECIOUS.)

And I remember thinking of how unimaginable it was for me to think that one day that teeny guy with his cute glasses and madras shirt would one day be the one HOLDING a kindergartner’s hand in the last opening assembly of his high school life.

I knew (and know), intellectually, that kids grow up. And that, one day he would be a senior. But thinking of that moment seemed less like 12 years distant and more like 100 years away.

I literally could not look through the other end of the lens.

But the other end of the lens comes whether you choose to look through it or not. (At least we all can hope it does. The alternative is beyond awful.)

Well, for me, it’s here. And what comes with it is the fact that 12 years(!) have passed. Twelve years for him, for our family, for me.

When we dropped him off for the first day of kindergarten, I was 38 years old. I was working at the Washington Post — getting ready for the 2014 midterms. (Republicans netted nine Senate seats and 13 House seats in that election.)

We were in season 4 of “Game of Thrones.” “Mad Men” was in its second-to-last season. The two highest grossing movies of the year were “Transformers: Age of Extinction” and “The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies.”

I didn’t think of myself as “young” or “dumb” back then. In fact, I saw myself as quite worldly.

I worked at the Washington Post! I had created my own blog (RIP, “The Fix”)! I had shepherded a child to school age!

Looking back though, I see myself back then as so innocent. But also strangely cocky too. Cocksure. Certain that I had it all figured out.

The past 12 years have changed me — as they have changed my little boy who is now a grown man. We lost my dad. My father-in-law. My wife’s grandparents. More people. Good people.

I lost my job. My wife left hers to raise the boys. Friends moved away. We drifted apart from people se were once close to.

Anyone who has lived a life knows that 12 years is a REALLY long time. Doesn’t seem like it when you are living each day. But when you take a minute — like I did today — to reflect back, you see just how much has changed.

Change, however, is neither good nor bad. Like so much of our lives, change is what you make of it.

Do I wish my dad and my father-in-law could see my son commit to a college to play soccer? I do. Of course I do. They would be so damn proud.

But, when I consider “Chris Cillizza circa 2014” and compare that to where I am now, do I think I have changed for the better? I do.

I am a more present and involved husband. (Maybe too involved if you ask my wife.) My boys know — beyond question — how much I love them. I am in a better — and by better I mean happier — place professionally.

I am simply more content than I was 12 years ago. And I think — and hope like hell — my wife, my boys and the people I interact with on a daily/weekly/monthly basis can feel that contentedness.

I think all you can hope for in life is that anytime you reach these “last first” moments or markers, you are able to look back at the “first first” moments and say: “I am more fulfilled today than I was that day.”

I can say that today. And I think my son (and his brother and my wife) can too. And even though I started this post with tears in my eyes, I am ending it with a smile on my face.

The *Last* First Day · Storyflo