Every year, on the first day of school for my boys, the house is filled with many different feelings and emotions. For them, there is nervous energy, bleary eyes, excitement, some depressed resignation that summer is over, and also dread. Not dread for the beginning of a new school year, mind you – they’re usually fairly ready to return to a regular schedule and have a dependable rhythm to their days. Dread, because they know that I will be asking them to stand on the front porch, and give me a smile or a corny thumbs up, while I preserve that ever important moment of the start of school with photographic evidence of another year gone by – mixed with all the hope and excitement of the impending new year yet to come.

There have been 13 years of this photo posing behavior, each one with growing resistance. Thirteen different opportunities for one or the other or both boys’ image to be captured, standing on the front stairs, usually with an Airedale terrier or stripy cat behind them, peeking and posing through the glass of the front door. There they have stood, with tired uncertain faces – new haircuts, sneakers and backpacks – enduring their annoying mother’s request to mug for the camera.

I love these freaking pics. I look at them at the start of each year, to see the difference from the years prior. The changes seem slight from day to day, but the difference from years past is striking. Each year, the faces become a little less round. In my 17 year old, the chiseled adult face of an emerging man reveals itself. For my 13 year old, the hair color grows less blonde, and the style looks less boyish, and more mature. Last year, my oldest son surpassed me in height, and if you don’t look too closely, the photo could easily be one of me standing next to full grown man. In fact, it basically is.

Every year, they complain and groan, but they comply with my request. They roll their eyes, and voice their disdain – but there they stand. They aquiesce. They pose like the good schoolboy models I ask them to be.

This year was different. This year, in 2025, there was not just a begrudging resistance, I’m going to tell you – I was flat out DENIED. By both of them. As if they had planned some kind of first day of school photo mutiny or something. I didn’t even see my oldest leave, as I think part of his mutiny plan was to be out of the house before I could even give him a kiss or pick up my phone to snap the shot. Rude (clever).

The younger finished his breakfast, ran through his favorite piano piece, completed the NYT games of the day with me (self soothing strategies when the nerves are firing up), grabbed his bag and ran out the door before I could get my dang phone and corner him on the steps before he escaped down them and ran down the street, barely turning back to say goodbye. Again, rude.

No. First. Day. Photos. Permission NOT granted. DENIED! In this ever momentous year of lasts! Last day of eighth grade. Last day of high school. Last day for each of them at their respective schools. And the last day ever at the nearby elementary and middle school, after 13 consecutive years of attendance.

What’s a mom to do? I panicked a little, at the thought of not having those first day of school photos. I rely on them, you see, as part of my own ritual to calm my anxious feelings of watching each one of my boys grow up, and become ever closer to moving out of the home we have made for them. For each first day of school marks the very few remaining firsts we have, as they morph into the lasts. It seems THESE photos could be considered the most important – the most treasured, the ones I really extra savor, due to their very nature of their lastness.

Alas – off they went, escaping the dread of my wishes, finally figuring out they can, if they want, actually deny me. And they know there really isn’t anything I can do about it. It makes me strangely uncomfortable, and weirdly proud, all at the same time. There is a selfish discomfort in knowing they have found their power, but I know that’s a good and necessary part of growing up. There’s also a sting, I won’t lie, that this year they chose their own desires over mine – which ultimately is probably also a good and healthy thing, as I watch them turning into the awesome young men we have raised them to be.

So there it is. Permission not granted. But I will give myself permission to begin the hard and beautiful reality of truly letting go. I will be okay with not having these first day photos to prove that they are awesome, that we’ve done good, and that they are growing into exceptional humans and sensational young men – for I know these things to be deeply true within my heart. I will frame this image of our empty front porch – no boys visible – and include the date, with a label that reads “Final first day, 8th and 12th Grades”. Perhaps in some way, there’s more meaning in that, than if they had pretended to smile, and acted like they didn’t detest being made to stand there, posing for one last time – when what they really want to do is go adventure… be with friends, learn new things, stumble and fall, pick themselves up, and not share much of any of it with us.

So go ahead, guys. Do your thing. Enjoy this year of lasts! Do your best, try hard. Savor the good times, and weather the bumps. I’m here to help you through when help is welcome – but will also hang back and watch you spread your wings and fly. As my own dad used to say – “watching your kids grow up is the greatest show on earth”. Boy is it ever. It’s scary, it’s joyful, it’s painful, and nothing short of phenomenal.

Know this… there’s no way in hell you’re getting away without a photo when you head off to college and high school next fall. Nope! No way. No freaking possible way.

Fair notice has been given.

Love every day,

Julia