Since when did nursery graduations become a thing? I’m sure I never had one, but last year my eldest daughter had two, complete with ribbon-tied certificates, gowns, mortar boards (long relegated to the bottom of the dressing-up box), and the obligatory cake.
Lovely as they were, I couldn’t help thinking this was all a little bit contrived. Yes, it was nice to mark the end of one stage of their life and the beginning of the next, but these smiling, bouncing, excited youngsters weren’t moving on through any merit other than having achieved a certain age. Yes, my daughter had done a lot, grown a lot, developed a lot, and learned a lot at both her nurseries, in no small part thanks to the wonderfully dedicated and inspired staff, but she hadn’t finished anything – she was only just beginning. We got some nice photos, ate the cake, and moved on.
With Benjamin, however, graduation seems utterly fitting. The two years he’s spent in the Green Room are laden with real achievements to celebrate: holding his head up; looking to both sides; expressing likes and dislikes; anticipating; recognising signs; choosing activities; making music; making friends. Tiny steps that accumulate slowly but surely. Graduation allows us to look back and see just how far he’s come.
Unlike his neurotypical sister, Benjamin’s achievements haven’t all been fun. The children in the Green Room have worked hard: walking and talking don’t come easy to them. Smiling, turning their heads, focusing their eyes are real challenges to some of them. Benjamin is exhausted at the end of each and every day (if not by lunchtime). Graduation is a chance to show him how proud we are of the effort he’s put in.
With a fragile, life-limited child, we never know if the current school year might be his last. He can go downhill so quickly we don’t know if each day might be his last. Our opportunities to make special memories are finite. Graduation is a precious source of photos and thoughts to cherish.
Benjamin, like many children with additional needs, goes to nursery (and will go to school) on the other side of the county. So I don’t see his teachers every day; I send him off in a taxi with his clinical support worker, and get a written report back on his return. I don’t see him interacting with other students; I rarely meet the other parents of children in his class. Graduation and other formal events are vital opportunities to meet Benjamin’s classmates (including his adorable best friend), to crystallize friendships with other parents with whom we actually share a great deal, to see the environment in which our son is being nurtured, and to meet with the people who care for, teach, inspire and monitor my little boy’s progress.
And what incredible people they are! Graduation Day is an (inadequate) opportunity to thank them for all they have done for Benjamin and for us over the past two years. These are not just teachers. They are carers, nurses, and friends, to Benjamin and to me. Theirs is not just a job but truly a vocation; they couldn’t do it otherwise. I trust them with my precious boy and they repay that trust a thousand times. Teaching and caring for children like Benjy is physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausting; saying goodbye to them is a wrench. On Graduation Day, we were all smiling through tears.
Despite their totally hands-on job, Benjamin’s teachers had somehow had time to make him a certificate and a book of hilariously-annotated photos of his time at nursery. There were presents and a video slideshow. There was cake and much-needed coffee. Graduation Day was a chance to relax, in the busy and stressful world of special needs parenting, to share a cuppa and a laugh with people who ‘just get it.’
It’s not just Benjamin who’s grown during his two years in the Green Room. I too have learned a lot. I’ve learned who to trust, when to ask for help, how to let go (to some extent), and when and how to fight like only a mama bear can. Graduation was a chance to reflect on how far we’ve all come over the past couple of years.
For a boy whose prenatal prediction was ‘incompatible with life,’ Benjamin continues to exceed expectations and defy predictions. For a child who was unlikely to start nursery, let alone finish it, Benjamin has beaten the odds. He’s passed huge milestones and, with the help of the Green Room staff, made irreplaceable memories. He might not have worn a mortarboard, but he’s built a legion of admirers who would in any case just have taken it off to stroke his hair. He’s a worthy graduate of the Green Room. Bring on Primary 1 (and don’t worry ladies, we’ll be popping back to nursery for cuddles very soon).