Ten years until I graduate.

My dad used to say that the start of a new school year was his favorite time of year. It meant crisp yellow pencils, a bright pink eraser. A fresh start.

I do recognize the importance of cycles, their ability to restart or refresh us.

But I feel like I’ve been in school f o r e v e r.

Thirteen years of my own. Four years of college. Eight years of teaching. Then herding, leading, prodding my own for . . . fifteen?

There was a time when the sight of a school bus would spark anxiety in me. On weekends away from the classroom already too short, I needed no reminder of that place that triggered so much in me. And perhaps it is residual tension from those teaching years that bubbles up as I cycle through the start of each new year with my own children.

But I feel like a prisoner in this academic calendar.

Last year I had a student in every educational environment.

Elementary, Middle, High School, and College.

All represented.

It was a cool factoid. A sign of our wide-ranging and crazy family. I named the blog post I never wrote: All Ages and Stages.

Now as I anticipate walking another child through the college gauntlet, when I don’t even feel I’ve recovered from the last go-round, I’m tired.

I will support the homework and the lunch-making, the pick-ups and drop-offs, the reminders and subsequent nagging, the atta-boys and better-luck-next-times.

But I look forward to the day I finally graduate.

Yes, I am singing Third Eye Blind as I type the title . . .