transition year

Last week, I went to the graduation ceremony for my daughter's transition year at St. Al's in Carrigtwohill. Beforehand, it was a long day of not eating, conference calls and board meetings. I left the office 15 minutes before the evening was meant to start - I grabbed a tank of gas, a croissant and a bottle of water, and hurried over.

Because I was showing up just as it began, all the seats were gone. So I stood at the back and watched as the teachers, then the girls, reviewed the year. They spoke of all the events, projects, trips that they worked on, and that in some way, we the parents worked on with them. They gave little speeches, had slideshows, played music with guitars and flutes. They gave out gifts and tokens of gratitude. But what struck me most was how sincerely they spoke about the experience, particularly in relation to the teachers. And how much the whole experience meant to them, and affected them. I got the sense that, despite the deadlines, the commitment and hard work, they really enjoyed the year.

The principal spoke, commenting on how the transition applied to the girls themselves, how they had changed over the year, in part to do with the types of activities they were involved in. I felt I had seen that change myself, and his words seemed fitting.

And as the evening came to a close, and the girls had been handed their "diplomas", and were all up on stage singing "Don't Stop Me Now", I had this moment - fueled by 2 hours of standing, low blood sugar, and plain pride. I had felt it off and on during the evening, this sort of bubbling emotion. I watched my daughter up on stage singing, and I remembered the little girl in the picture, and all of the years in between - and I made my own transition, of sorts. A transition where a father realizes his daughter has become so much more than the old picture. And has done so much and come so far, and was capable of doing it on her own. And most importantly, she has so much more to do, and so much farther to go.