First Day Back Layer Cake

I vividly remember what it was like to go back to school after summer vacation (or any extended time away). It was a mess of emotions; a layer-cake of fear, excitement, nervousness, and anxiety all topped with hope. It didn't help that I was a kid who would get homesick at the thought of being away from home. I can remember many first days back when all I wanted was to be back home; I am fairly certain that I even walked home and hid in our hall closet one time, but maybe this is just what I'd only dreamed about doing. Thankfully, the homesick feeling lessened with each passing year; had it not, I could have developed a huge problem with skipping the "first day back" once I was able to drive myself to school. The small break I took from this recipe (during my early twenties, and during the twins' birth to five years stage) didn't serve to dull my memory... or taste buds.

This morning, I resist the urge to grab my camera for "first day back pictures." After all, my little girls are sixteen. I can only imagine what would happen if I ask them to stand on the front porch for pictures. I would most certainly receive a lecturette on etiquette for parents of sixteen year olds; this would be accompanied by eye rolling and hands on hips. They would, after enough "ughs" give up and allow me to take the perfunctory first day back picture but it would wind up making them feel like little kids again. And, they aren't. And, I can't send them off to school making them feel like they are.
As they hustle out the door and climb into Melanie's boyfriend's car, I am feeling the alterations I've made to the original First Day Back Layer Cake recipe. The first and most constant alteration came as I watched the girls excitedly waiting for the school bus on their first day of Kindergarten. A dash of panic, a cup of sadness, two cups of pride and "I-can't-let-you-go-off-on-your-own spice" to taste.
In subsequent years,  I'd found it necessary to make additional alterations to the recipe...Cups of encouragement, more sadness, more pride. And with each year, I've added more of the "I-can't-let-you-go-off-on-your-own spice," and, much like butter, one can never have too much hope.
I know that I cannot snap a picture of them as they are climbing into the car because to do so would mean that I risk crying. It would take only a split second for me to be transported back in time. I would see myself standing at the top of the driveway of our first house on Spring Run with my babies--with their perfectly bobbed, summer-blonde hair,  little back-to-school dresses--navy blue with tiny, white flowers and short, white sleeves; I would hear their tiny voices and see them fiddling with the bright yellow raccoon name tags (gifts from Ms. Case, their Kindergarten teacher) hanging around their necks. I would re-live every detail-- the little backpacks and matching lunch bags. White sandals and unpainted toe nails. Deep bronzed, end-of-summer tans. And the all to familiar smell of the First Day Back Layer Cake baking. Yes, I would recall and re-live every moment; sad that eleven years have passed-- none of which I can get back except in pictures and this mentally transporting back in time trick I've somehow mastered. To pick-up my camera and attempt pictures, only to end up a sobbing mess would really throw my teenage daughters into a tizzy on their first day back. And, I can't do this to them.  So, I do what I believe most mothers are doing right now. I allow the little voice inside my head to order me around like a remote-controlled robot mom, "Raise your hand and wave goodbye. Now smile. No! No! No! Do not let that tear slip. Is your lip quivering? Stop that right now. Smile. Dammit, smile like you mean it. Now, close the door. MOVE YOUR FEET, STEP BACK. That's it, you can do it. Smile. Wave. Close. CLOSE."
I am peeking out the window as they pull out of the driveway. I am not really seeing the stunning young women they've become. I am seeing my five year olds who aren't concerned with bullying because they haven't experienced it yet;  who are just excited to be old enough to ride the bus. I am recalling two little faces peeking through the school bus window, smiling and waving and full of pure joy.
When they turn the corner and are out of my sight I hear the little voice again, this time softer and gentler. "You can do it. Breathe. It's okay to cry now." And, I do.