By Amy Keyes 
As a teacher, I count the time in school days. And as a proud Midwesterner for life, I also count the time in seasons.
The time between September and spring break seems like an eternity—like going to watch a play you don’t understand takes forever to get to intermission. The kind where you try to step out to use the bathroom but can’t seem to find the right time, but you also don’t really care if you get back in right away. But once spring break hits, the rest of the year feels like the last act of a play that is so good you don’t want it to end.
While I love spring, once break hits, I usually find myself starting to count down the minutes until summer, when the days once again linger and I feel I can give more attention to my family and the day to day things that get put on the back burner during the school year.
But this year, I find myself trying to hit the brakes and slow things down as much as I can. Because for me, this is the year of lasts—and now that one of my kids is in the spring season of his senior year, I know those lasts are going to fly by.
Last week was my spring break. My husband and I took an incredible trip to San Diego, leaving our newly minted adult son and his brother, who is not so far behind that title, to take a trial run of roommate life. We came home to two teenagers who made it everywhere they needed to be—school, PT, work, track. A dog that was fed and walked. And a house that far exceeded any cleanliness expectations I had when I left two teenage boys on their own. And, no calls from the neighbors, who were kind enough to keep an extra eye on things.
I found myself overcome with pride in the kids we’ve raised, and also found my heart holding a tinge of sadness that we are not needed in the same way we used to be.
Today, we sent our oldest son off on a senior spring break trip. We woke up at the crack of dawn to see him off, and I listened to him quietly tiptoe into his brother’s room to say goodbye as he got ready to leave for a week filled with adventures he will hold in his heart for a lifetime.
And something in that gentle moment brought me to tears.
All of this feels like a dress rehearsal for what is about to come, as I prepare for these final months of the school year to fly by and leave me in the dust.
Because this week, while I know the transition of our family from four to three is temporary, it feels so big since soon it will be showtime for the real deal. I can already feel a quiet in our house that is disarming and empty. And it’s really strange to be in this place in life.
I picture the college send-off that is just around the bend. The infrequent visits home that we have in store with quick hellos and goodbyes, and what I know will never be enough time in between.
I envision all of the day-to-day moments, small and large, that will build the lives of these young men across time. Moments viewed more and more from a narrowing telescope rather than the front row seats we had for years.
I find myself trying to freeze everything right now, during a time of year I historically would wish away.
Perspective is so poignant. When I was younger, I never gave any thought to how my parents felt in these moments of us growing up so quickly. To the dress rehearsals they had as they watched their three daughters move through different stages of life. As we left for college. Moved away. Got married. Built families of our own. I never thought about how, in all of this, they were also preparing for their dress rehearsal of aging and finding themselves all over again.
And now I think about it all the time.
This dress rehearsal for the next stage of life is probably the longest-running show in history (up there with Cats). It’s the production of letting go. Over and over again. Really, we’ve been doing it from the minute our kids were born, but somehow now, this time seems so big.
It’s a beautiful and heartbreaking time all at once. The kind of performance where all of the people up on that stage deserve bouquets of flowers tossed to them, and a standing ovation. Because no matter who you are in the cast, you are feeling something completely new and unknown each time.
So this spring, I am going to hold every moment close. Watch the stage with an attentiveness I haven’t in the past. Try to embrace the delicate balance of holding on but letting go.
Because before I know it, the dress rehearsal will be done, and it will be the opening act of something new.
by Colin Morris 
by Tabitha Milam 
