Junior high marks new beginning

My 12-year-old son joined the world of junior high today.
Diego is an official seventh grader.
For him, it’s a sign he's becoming older, no longer an elementary kid. Junior high is one step closer to high school.
But for me, Diego’s new grade is a reminder that my firstborn is growing up, becoming his own young man.
I think the last time I felt this way, I was walking him to his first day of kindergarten.
There I was, hiding my motherly worries.Would he make friends quickly? Would he feel OK when he looked around and I wasn’t there? Would his teacher see the potential that his proud parents did?
On that day, I squeezed him tightly, kissed his cheek and turned my then-5-year-old over to Mr. Chapa, whom I’d just met but to this day, remains a distant friend to our family.
I remember waving good-bye, smiling and confident as my little guy did the same. Then I turned away, crying to myself, knowing that my baby was growing up.
He’s had some amazing elementary school years, thank to awesome teachers, including Mrs. Quinonez, Mrs. McKee, and Ms. Holden.
Now it’s a new ball game.
I realize I can’t cuddle him today like I did at kindergarten. That wouldn’t be cool.
And the thought of mom volunteering in his class as I suggested doesn’t sit too well in his mind. Do school activities at a distance, mom. OK, got it.
Over the weekend, I asked him if he was nervous about junior high.
“Nah,” he says then shrugs his shoulder.
“I’m used to going from period to period,” referring to his magnet days at Chavez School.
I wish I had an inch of that confidence when I started my 7th grade. But I was that insecure kid, wondering how to fit in.
Junior high turned out not too bad as I’d imagined. But it was a time where many of us searched for the right identity as we awaited high school.
Boy, did we jump on the trends bandwagon. I’m not sure if I’ll ever safety pin the pantleg of my jeans again. And pretty sure I’ll pass on shaving the side of my head for that 80s new wave/punk style. Finding ourselves in the midst of youth.
Diego seems to have figured it out. He’s sure of himself, smart in academics and deft in athletics.
But I’ll be there — at a “cool” distance, of course — waiting on him, whenever he needs me. And when I can, I’ll squeeze in a hug and kiss or two. We mothers can’t help that.