Well, it happened. I registered my first-born for high school today (even though I’m only 23, so that was awkward.) I’m not sure either of us was completely ready for it. While I silently pondered questions like, “Am I hotter than at least 75% of moms?” and “Could maybe one person mistake me for a high-schooler if I had on sunglasses and they only caught me out of the corner of their eye?” Henry was having an epiphany. “Mom, I’m like 3 years away from moving out of our house. How do you be an adult? Like, how do you write a check? How do I know if this chair goes with the other furniture?”
We snaked through the lines and paid for activities, a yearbook, PE clothes, a locker (wtf, we have to PAY for a locker?) and loaded the lunch account. I followed Henry as he ran upstairs and down between the two main buildings that comprise Boise High, high-fiving and bro-hugging along the way.
I have to admit, I was back there for a minute. It’s all way too familiar, ya know? The cheerleaders with their big bows and too-tan legs, the goofy greeter from student council with green braces, acne, and a shocking level of self-confidence, the earnest girl handing out flyers for the BHS environmental club.
So, in honor of the wonderful misery that is high school, and the fact that it’s #tbt, I give you ALL THE HOTNESS.
My genuine hope is that Henry will experience all the trials and tribulations I did; the good, bad, fun, ridiculous, embarrassing, empowering, and memorable, so that three years from now he will have the life-experience to go out on his own with confidence (and know that OBVIOUSLY that chair doesn’t belong in this room.)