May Magic

And you thought December was busy.

It’s bonkers in our house right now. Anyone involved in the lives of school-age children will vouch for the madness brought on by the end of the school year. If you’ve seen this video, you know I’m talking about “Maycember.”

This week alone, I penciled in the following events: a grade-level potluck at the park, a field trip, a talent show, a book fair, field day, and a “read-in” when—if you have time and would like to—you are welcome to come read aloud to the class. I also noted requests for class gift donations and craft materials for Father’s Day projects. All for just one of my children.

In addition to all this “fun,” my youngest—yes, the one who will enjoy all the above activities—came home this week with a fever due to a virus (no, not that one), since every pathogen that thrives in an elementary school is stretching its legs after a three-year hibernation. (He’s recovered, by the way.) I also happen to be battling the worst case of seasonal allergies I’ve had in years. The optometrist compared it to hives, except in my eyes. Oh, and the dishwasher broke.

And I haven’t even touched what this month looks like for working parents! Some days I wish that I could whisper in the ear of my pre-motherhood teacher self, and say, “Parents are tired people. You don’t need to laminate every project, and maybe cut the end-of-year activities in half.” 

One might say: It’s all a bit much. This week, I did. 

One afternoon, while doling out Tylenol and trying not to scratch my eyes out, my school notifications exploded one after another, like little fireworks from my phone. After tucking my sick boy in bed, I’d barely finished reading the first message when I felt myself teetering on the edge of sanity.

“Why do we need an end-of-year potluck at the park? Don’t these kids play with each other every day?” I imagined another sugar bonanza and the image of my child in the rearview mirror following such an event: hair spiked with sweat, pink, dirt-streaked cheeks, sugar-crash imminent.

I was definitely over the edge.

Could I have acknowledged the time volunteered by so many parents to make all this fun happen for our kids, including mine? Yes. What about the teachers? I used to be one, for goodness’ sake. I know too well what this time of year feels like, that teachers work double overtime to finish projects, submit reports, and tie up the school year in a big, beautiful bow because they care about their students and take pride in their work. Finally, should I have taken a moment to remember the simple joy kids take in showing off for their parents and being with each other? Yes again. 

I wasn’t there yet.

As I grumbled my way through the week, one of my dearest friends sent a snippet of her daughter’s middle school chorus performance. Because end-of-year chaos has been a topic of discussion lately, I paused when she said that the video may offer a few minutes of calm amidst the storm. And did she say she actually enjoyed the school concert? 

With the tornado of a week I was having, a moment of calm sounded lovely. I tapped the link. 

A young soloist sang the first words of Keane’s “Somewhere Only We Go,” and as his voice soared over the opening notes, I felt a tiny shift in my mood. A softening. Within moments, the rest of the chorus sang out, the sopranos ringing over the lower sections in sweeping harmony. 

“Oh simple thing, where have you gone?” 

Okay, she wasn’t kidding; these kids were really good. But something else was happening, and it wasn’t the promised calm. I needed a moment. That softening was giving way to . . . tears? 

Maybe it was their voices, or the lyrics, or both. Maybe it was all the hours I knew that chorus director had worked, as she pumped her arms and conducted and believed in these kids. Maybe it was the clean, well-maintained gym that they performed in, indicative of what I imagined to be a well-resourced building, bristling with teachers and students doing their best teaching and learning, and shouldn’t that be happening at every school? Maybe it was the students’ pride in their performance, radiating beyond adolescent aloofness. Maybe it was the combination of youth and optimism paired with my own nostalgia for simpler times. 

And, if I’m honest, it may have been what feels like an unforgivable truth: These young people are on the cusp of maturing into a world with problems that, at times, seem impossible to solve.

Maybe it was that this week had been a lot. 

I watched this performance a few times, a chorus of other people’s children standing on bleachers in a school across the country, and I wept. Not a big, ugly cry, but a few fat tears rolling from my puffy, allergy-ridden eyes, those young voices leaving me in a puddled state. Their song was so beautiful. 

It made me wonder: Is it possible all this fun and performing and memory-making are part of what makes this life more than just getting from one day to the next? Those magical moments when our inner worlds go quiet, and the only thing that’s clear is that we get to be here with each other, to pay attention, to listen?

It could be kids performing for their parents, or another talent show, or popsicles in the park with the whole grade while the parents pretend not to notice that the kids are having more than one. Or gratitude for steroid drops that have my eyes feeling better by the hour. It’s a million other things for different people, and maybe it’s what “Maycember” is all about.

Not every school event is going to feel magical; we know this. Most might feel downright exhausting. But if we’re lucky, we get a moment or two, or more, like the one my friend shared.

The next three weeks will be very, very busy in our house. The picnics, the concerts, the everything; we will be a tired bunch, and it will be messy. But what’s new? 

What I know is this: That “simple thing” didn’t go anywhere.

It’s right here for the taking at home, at school, at the doctor’s, and at that darned potluck, popsicles and all, and everywhere in between.  It’s here every single day, simply because I get to be here. 

And today, with my almost-better eyes and my healthy child who burst in from school on Friday and left his backpack on the floor in the entryway and his dirty socks a few steps beyond because he was so excited to tell me about his day—and I reminded him to put away both items, as I do every afternoon—I wouldn’t change a thing.

PS 22 is located in Staten Island, New York City, and they have an award-winning chorus. Check out their rendition of “Somewhere Only We Know.”