To hear my kids deride TV shows targeted at preschoolers these days, you’d think they’d never been preschoolers themselves.

But there was a time in their lives, whether they believe it or not, when Barney (the singing purple dinosaur) reigned supreme, when the four unintelligible TeleTubbies were greeted with delight, when dancing with The Wiggles was an afternoon highlight and when hearing Mr. Rogers croon, “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood…” soothed and satisfied.

While many parents report irritation–or even admit to passing homicidal thoughts–at the mere mention of Barney and his cast of precocious, over-perky pre-adolescents, I never minded the show as much as some adults did because I loved that my kids learned so many songs along with Baby Bop and B.J.  Similarly, seeing my young ones move non-stop for a half-hour or more at a time with the Australian-accented Wiggles wasn’t annoying because they were simultaneously burning off energy and mastering some tricky dance moves.

Personally, I had a little more trouble with “Clifford, the Big Red Dog” and “Caillou,” the latter a Canadian children’s show in which the inexplicably bald preschooler, Caillou, would do the dumbest and most outrageous things–and his mother never, ever raised her voice or expressed the least bit of exasperation but merely chided (in a soft, patient tone I found wholly unrealistic, especially given the preschooler’s idiotic and provocative behavior), “Now, Caillou.”

When our first child was about six and the youngest of our three children was an infant, we pulled the plug on cable TV at our house out of concern the eldest son was becoming too attached to the electronic babysitter. Granted, it was the History and Discovery channels he was most drawn to, but his habit of walking into the house and immediately turning on the TV was becoming too ingrained, despite our threats and entreaties to cease.

Finally, we kept our word and eliminated the hazard. Lack of cable TV truly hurt us more at first than it did him, but it didn’t take long for the kids to get used to only having a grainy public TV signal, and two or so other channels, available intermittently, and for reading and other activities to take precedence over a regular viewing schedule.

Today our son will join his classmates in striding across the platform in the Worthington High School gymnasium  to accept his high school diploma. We saw this coming some years ago–probably around the same time he was absorbing Barney’s songs and the Wiggles’ dances with fervor–and now I find myself hoping it is the lessons learned from many episodes of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood he will remember as he processes into his next stage of life.

Mr. Rogers, a kindly, caring soul out of whom a mean word could not have been tortured, gently preached to viewers in the spirit of the ordained minister he in fact was. His messages included respecting others and their feelings, finding the beauty in simple, quiet things, self-sufficiency (tying one’s own shoes, making one’s own nutritious food), forthright assurances (“You can never go down the drain,” for example), the benefits of regular exercise (walking and swimming were his personal favorites), nurturing creativity and imagination, and valuing the contributions of others, no matter how different their pursuits and jobs might be from those most familiar to you.

Taking viewers on videotaped trips to factories and other workplaces, Fred Rogers would look straight at the camera, marvel at a line worker’s repetitive assignment and exclaim, “Isn’t she GOOD at what she does?” or “He really does that well!” And viewers had to agree, however grudgingly, that this mundane function was, indeed, well-done by that worker, even if it was something others wouldn’t normally consider an important undertaking.

The train at our house has long since left Shining Time Station, but I am gratified to say a sneak peek at my son’s commencement speech has shown that some of Mr. Rogers’ lessons may indeed have taken a foothold in his brain, though there were moments over the years when I had my doubts. I will not prematurely give away his message, but suffice to say Mr. Rogers might look down from heaven with a nod and smile before zipping up his sweater.

It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood…and a beautiful day to graduate. Congratulations, Worthington High School Class of 2013!

Comfortable? Most people are, when ensconced in their own routines and operating in the realm of their individual areas of expertise.

But of course there are times when either professional or personal interests require us to step outside our boxes, take a deep breath and plunge into a setting or topic area that is more alien than familiar to us.

Having worked as a writer for various newspapers and corporations for nearly 30 years to date, this has happened to me on more occasions than I can count. The native curiosity that draws a person into writing/reporting is at the root of this “out of my comfort zone” phenomenon, and necessarily part of the job, as one person could never be a master of all areas upon which one might be called to write. More often in reporting, it’s a fun, thrilling, “permission to be intrusive” sense that pervades, and I couldn’t be more delighted.

For instance, what woman doesn’t enjoy asking a recent bride about the details of her wedding, or teasing the intricacies of a house remodel out of a proud homeowner? Or when it’s time to craft a personal profile, who wouldn’t find the ins and outs of someone’s life and career path fairly fascinating?

The pleasure I derive from such assignments is what led my father-in-law, years ago, to fondly but somewhat condescendingly dub me “Frieda Feature,” a moniker I didn’t always welcome but now recognize I probably deserved.

Still, it’s the unfamiliar, the challenges, the things that bring a stab of anxiety, that stretch and shape us, not the “Frieda Feature” pieces into which I can slide as easily as a fearless toddler scampers into a wading pool on a hot summer’s day.

When Tom West, an early writing mentor who hired me at age 20 as a summer intern at the Janesville Argus, sent me to cover a Janesville city council meeting–and a tax increment financing plan was the night’s primary hot button–I can still feel the panic I experienced when the meeting room door closed behind me and I was left to take notes on a topic I’m not even sure I’d heard of until that very moment. With an expectation that I was somehow supposed to explain the issue in understandable and accurate terms for the general public’s consumption, I quickly boned up on tax increment financing and its implications, particularly as related to the project in question. Glancing at the finished article all these years later, I’m relieved to see it made sense and clarified the questions at hand, though I wasn’t sure I knew at all what I was writing about then.

A year or so down the road (literally miles further east via Highway 14), a stint at the Rochester Post-Bulletin provided many more “teachable moments.” While the editor, Steve Andrist, was extremely supportive and kind to this greenhorn reporter, he and the other mostly male editorial staff nevertheless seemed to take a certain glee in giving me assignments that were absolutely NOT up my alley.

Two particular examples stand out to this day.  First is their decision to dispatch sports-ignorant ME, rather than a sports reporter, to Mankato to write a couple of “color pieces” about the Minnesota Vikings training camp. Yes, really. I recall that tight end Mike Mularkey was generous with a few comments, so even if his stats don’t place him there, he ranks among the Vikings’ all-time greats in my book.

Another was my mandatory attendance at a World Wrestling Federation match at the Rochester Civic Center. I can maybe think of a few things in life I would rather do than watch “All-Star Wrestling,” but I’d need a week to name them. (My then-boyfriend, now husband, however, was envious of this “plum” assignment.)  While I’ve apparently blocked most of that night from my memory, my overall impression was FAKE, FAKE, FAKE.

Here in Worthington, this non-farm girl finds most things agriculture-related (and most things here ARE agriculture-related, with only a few degrees of separation) to be an uphill climb. Discussing HACCP regulations with area feed manufacturers, or correctly identifying cattle, may come naturally to an ag reporter, but takes more effort for a “city girl.”

Still, isn’t it Kelly Clarkson who reminds us that “What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger?” Going outside your comfort zone, like eating Brussels sprouts, just has to be good for you.

There are innumerable things we tend to take for granted after awhile…indoor plumbing, toilet paper, clean air, spouses, electricity, grocery stores, bananas and shoes, to name only several.

And while everyone in the southwest corner of Minnesota may be tired of hearing more about trees after scores of ours were mangled in the ice/snow storm of two weeks ago, they remain very much on my mind. Earth Day was Monday, after all, and Arbor Day is due to arrive Friday (along with more springlike weather?), so consider this a tribute to some of the trees I’ve known–and arguably too often taken for granted–in my life.

Trees have always been integrally entwined with my experiences. A plum tree in the backyard of the house where I lived from about age 4 to 7 was the site of countless playtimes–and the ground underneath it became the burial place of my prized Malibu Barbie, who woefully failed to live up to her beachside billing when the battery-aided mechanism that allowed her to talk gave up the ghost with a tragic gurgle after 5-year-old me took her for a swim in our birdbath. Worried my parents would be angry I had silenced the new toy, and convinced in any case she had “died,” I gave her a hasty but surely reverent funeral beneath that forgiving plum tree.

A few blocks away and a few years later, at our “new” house, I was fascinated with the two towering pines in either corner of our back lot. I distinctly remember climbing one with a notepad and pencil in hand and writing a short poem–before descending, covered with sticky pine sap, and deciding that maybe pines weren’t the best climbers, after all.

Another favorite tree was the Chinese elm, situated only a few feet from the house and my older brother’s bedroom window. It had a V-shaped nook, a perfect place for perching with a book. That was terrific, because I wanted desperately to imagine myself as Betsy Ray, the fictional personification of Maud Hart Lovelace and heroine of Lovelace’s “Betsy-Tacy” series. And Betsy/Maud, who spent her own childhood years just a few short miles from my home, albeit on the Mankato (rather than North Mankato) side of the Minnesota River, constantly talked about wanting to become a writer as she penned short stories and poems while sitting in her backyard maple on “Hill Street” (actually Mankato’s Center Street–another grand coincidence, as my home was on North Mankato’s Center Street). The Chinese elm also had the advantage of being an excellent place from which to spy on my brother.

Kitty-corner from my house were the giant cottonwoods of Wheeler Park, under which there seemed to be perpetual summer shade and an enchanted world for a child–and later, a privacy-seeking teen. The fast-growing birch tree outside our side door also provided cover for furtive 16-year-old kisses, while the two hackberry trees on the front  boulevard made barefoot walking a tricky proposition in certain months.

An oversized weeping willow tree in a neighbor’s yard was magical, and brought to life for me a photo illustrating Christina Rossetti’s “What is Pink? A Rose is Pink” from a beloved children’s poetry book. A natural arch in some wayward cottonwoods on Monroe Elementary’s playground was the altar for impromptu recess “weddings” conducted by my kindergarten and first-grade classmates (a scenario in which the giggling girls captured doomed boys to serve as very reluctant grooms).

And is it too late to seek forgiveness of the trees my teenage girlfriends and I thoroughly decorated by moonlight with toilet paper? Or perhaps we should apologize to the parents of the boys in whose yards those trees resided…

My memories of trees stretch endlessly, like branches to the sky, but the quintessential “tree” poem–written in 1913 by Alfred Joyce Kilmer, a poet and journalist who died from a sniper’s bullet at age 31 during World War I’s Second Battle of the Marne in 1918–still says it best.

“Trees,” by A. Joyce Kilmer: I think that I shall never see; A poem lovely as a tree; A tree whose hungry mouth is prest against the sweet earth’s flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, and lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in summer wear a nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; who intimately lives with rain; Poems are made by fools like me, but only God can make a tree.

May we learn to appreciate all the people and things around us that are too easily, and too often, taken for granted.

You know that oft-misquoted quote commonly attributed to Mark Twain about the coldest winter he ever spent being a summer in San Francisco?

Well, I think I’ve rarely felt more frozen from head to toe than as a spectator at “spring” track meets in southern Minnesota. Parents and fans of other spring sports–softball, baseball, tennis, golf–surely have their own chilly tales of woe, but with two teenage tracksters in my family, I am most familiar with the brittle, practically dry ice feel of the metal bleachers at Worthington’s Trojan Field and other high school stadiums around the area.

This comes to mind because Tuesday–that day of cutting winds, ice bombs and limbs dropping unexpectedly from trees and stormy skies–was to have been the date of Worthington High School’s second outdoor track meet of the season. Mercifully, it was postponed in anticipation of the nasty incoming weather–but already the extended forecast for its rescheduled time is showing a high of no more than 47. Last Friday’s meet at Slayton was scarcely better, in any case. Another commitment prevented me from attending that meet, but when my husband returned, chilled to the bone and lacking gloves, he reported that the most wanted man on site was the guy offering to lend his lumberjack hat, earflaps and all, to whoever had earlobes on the verge of frostbite.

That’s how it goes at these track meets; you’ll never get closer to other parents, friends and strangers than when you huddle in clumps, desperately seeking warmth and shelter in the presence of multiple humans, as draughts of wind smack you in the face until you feel like whimpering and your thighs begin to clatter against the bleachers.

The most popular people are the ones who show up with flannel, fleece or stadium blankets in tow and appear to be willing to share an edge, whether to sit on or fling over your coldest body part of the moment. (Greet those folks with a big, friendly smile and do your best to look welcoming.) There’s always some sad individual (and haven’t we all been that person at one time or another?) who pathetically underestimates the weather conditions and saunters up to the spectator stands in shirt sleeves, capris or a light jacket when the situation clearly calls for thermal long johns, mittens with hand warmers, parkas and wooly scarves for simple survival. Men in that position usually try to tough it out, alternately jabbing their hands in their pockets for warmth or blowing on them and trying to look stoic, while women beg someone, anyone, for an extra article of clothing in a futile effort to feel comfortable.

At three to four hours in duration, track meets are typically longer than football games, and watching skinny teens leap hurdles, vault over the high jump bar, hand off cold metal batons with bare palms or run a mile or two in nothing but skimpy short-shorts and loose nylon tank tops doesn’t exactly make a person feel warmer.

Hungry–it makes you hungry, that’s what it does. In the stands at track meets, I’ve shared pistachios, peanut M & Ms, yogurt raisins, popcorn and bits of granola bars, or chowed down on hot dogs, pizza and candy bars, all while vainly craving a hot, home-cooked meal. You’ve never seen a group of adults drool faster or sport such a look of collective longing as when a more-organized-than-the-rest-of-us mom arrived (with blanket in hand) and informed us a Crock Pot of beef stew and fresh-baked corn bread awaited her family at home following a meet when the temperature stood at about 45 and the wan sun had already dropped behind a threatening array of gray clouds by 5:10 p.m.

Chasing the chill with coffee or hot chocolate is also popular, but then you have to rise from the huddle to visit the restrooms–which invariably seem even colder than the outdoor air, not to mention requiring (for women, at least) even greater “northern exposure.”

And why is it that 50 degrees in April or May can feel colder than the same temperature in October? Maybe because we’re EXPECTING it to be spring?  Brrrr.

At least onlookers are motivated to cheer with great conviction, “Run FASTER!”

C’mon, we’re freezing out here.

Carnegie Hall. Broadway. Central Park. Times Square. The Plaza Hotel. All these landmarks–and much, much more–have been experienced by a large contingent of Worthingtonians this week.

Today marks the last full day that 105 Worthington High School (WHS) choral members (along with several adult chaperones and “tag-alongs”) are in the Big Apple. Kids who just a few years ago sang about “NYC” in the WHS production of “Annie” have now had the opportunity to experience a taste of that fabled metropolitan area first-hand, due to the planning and coordination of choral instructor Kerry Johnson.

It was over a year ago when Johnson first presented the idea of taking her choir students to New York, and enthusiasm for the trip grew from there. So it transpired that, after several fundraising projects (frozen food, cookie dough or spaghetti feed, anyone?), part-time jobs, parental contributions and concentrated packing efforts, dozens of students boarded three Reading Bus Lines coaches in the chilly WHS parking lot Monday afternoon for a 25+ hour ride across the U.S. to the Clifton, N.J., La Quinta Inn & Suites (approximately 16 miles from Manhattan).

There, the weary travelers had a mere half hour to refresh themselves before their grand adventure really got under way–a quick stop at Yankee Stadium, dinner at the Hard Rock Cafe, a subway ride to Times Square and “Cinderella” on Broadway. Not bad for a first night on the town!

With two teens of my own on the tour, my interest in the trip has been understandably high. Technology enabled us to literally track the buses online (via an app aptly named “Followmee”) as they rolled to the East Coast, but there is still no means of instantly teleporting oneself some 1,000 miles. That’s unfortunate, because we were unexpectedly awakened from a sound night’s slumber around 12:45 a.m. Central Standard Time Wednesday by a beeping cell phone with a message from our ninth-grade daughter, informing us she had spent most of the night throwing up in the hotel bathroom and didn’t know what to do.

In a flash, I sent a text message to the indefatigable choir director, seeking help for the sick 14-year-old. Instantly, Johnson responded, “On my way,” and though she was surely exhausted, she sought to help the poor girl and called me back a short time later to let me know what steps had been taken.

Sadly, my daughter was not the only one affected by what appears to have been a short-lived but intense virus; close to 10 students were similarly afflicted and missed most of Wednesday’s exciting activities, including Al Roker’s NBC Today Show weather report, a walking tour of Central Park, a singing appearance at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine and a tour of Radio City Music Hall. WHS math teacher Theresa Hoesing drew the (un)lucky chaperone straw and nobly stayed behind with the ailing youths, but later that afternoon, all were able to rejoin the fun and embark on an evening harbor cruise, featuring an up-close and personal view of the Statue of Liberty.

The week’s weather has been mostly tourist-friendly, with participants reporting many signs of spring in New York, even as they visited Chinatown and Little Italy yesterday after a morning “Making Music” clinic with Broadway performers. A walk across the Brookyln Bridge to the 9/11 memorial was also on tap, and the memories are piling up faster than text messages can be sent and Facebook accounts updated, with photos revealing only smiles and excitement.

“The choir sounded awesome in the cathedral setting,” offered one parent who was present. An impromptu performance of an African call-and-response spiritual the choir students delivered in Central Park on Wednesday was also greeted with a positive response by passers-by. “Way cool,” commented another parent on the scene at that moment.

But a tour designed for 14- to 18-year-olds can’t provide every creature comfort some adults might appreciate. One on-the-spot parent, wishing in vain for an “adult beverage” nightcap after a long, tiring day, queried in a wistful text message, “Did you know this is an alcohol-free trip? What’s that all about?”

Eh, maybe next time. This one’s all about the kids. And if they can make it there–sickness, subway, singing and all–they can make it anywhere. It’s up to you, New York.

Spring is due to officially arrive Wednesday…but being a nearly lifelong Minnesotan, and one who celebrates her birthday in late March to boot, I know this is almost never the time when spring truly begins in this state.

As a child, Groundhog Day annually inspired false hope in me that winter might magically be gone–poof!–in time for my birthday, so I could have an outdoor party and more friends  in attendance than our compact living room would otherwise accommodate.

But a Polaroid photo from my seventh birthday reveals the sad truth–four little girls, bundled up against the cold (save for our bare, knobby knees visible between knee-high socks and stylish mini-skirts). We wore hand-crafted, construction paper birthday hats and gripped balloons in mittened hands on the front sidewalk for a few chilly minutes, with snowdrifts in the foreground dwarfing our first-grade selves.

As the years passed, I became resigned to the reality that “spring” in Minnesota more typically means state tournament blizzards, stubborn ice floes on unfortunately shaded driveways, uneven patches of dirty snow (often into May), potholes, jackets and sweaters well after apple blossom season ends in Washington, D.C., and wet shoes from muddy puddles once temperatures finally do begin to climb.

Suffice to say, when asked to name my favorite season, I’ve never once replied, “Spring.”

Yet somehow my spouse and I selected April 15 for our wedding…curious choice in many ways, especially given that autumn seemed to beckon for such an occasion. Because we lived in the Twin Cities the year of our nuptials, with the wedding set to take place in Mankato, we planned to visit the weekend before the big day to finalize some arrangements–only to be thwarted by a fierce April 8 snowstorm. The following weekend was much better, sporting sunshine and a warmer high temperature, but the trees were gray and leafless and there was a dearth of other colorful foliage in our two (count ‘em) outdoor photos.

Yes, there are intermittent years when the calendar’s third month is more lamb-like–take 2012, for instance, when local golf courses opened on record-setting early March dates and, on at least one day, area thermometers registered 77 degrees Fahrenheit.  In fact, the National Weather Service reports March 2012 is now the warmest March on record, with the average Minnesota temperature of 42 degrees shattering the previous March average of 40.6–set in 1910!

And during one of my college springtimes, March was unseasonably mild, with shorts-clad students throwing endless Frisbees and sun-bathing all over campus, inspiring one of the worst cases of spring fever I’ve ever experienced.

But spring is notoriously fickle, and I also have photos from the mid-90s of my then-two-year-old son gazing out the window at a May ice storm that knocked out power to surrounding rural areas–for a few days, I think it was–and kept us from hitting the park or planting much of anything until June rolled in.

Summer, with its often unrelenting heat–or sometimes, worse, a lack of warmth just when you are most longing for it–is also not at the top of my list.

Give me autumn: crisp air, bountiful apples, blue skies, fresh beginnings and holidays ahead. And apparently many people also enjoy a little more “indoor time” at that point in the year.

Indeed, the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention confirm that most U.S. babies are born from June through September, and August is the month with the highest number of births in 10 out of 16 recent years. You do the math! It’s no wonder the memorable love ballad “If Ever I Would Leave You” from the 1960s musical “Camelot” includes seven lines (the most dedicated to any season) as to why Lancelot could never leave Guenevere in autumn–but only three about how she “bewitches” him in the springtime.

We’re all free to choose our favorite months and seasons. I, for one, am hoping March will not linger.

While National Children’s Dental Health Month wrapped up a few days ago, a recent post by a Facebook friend that mentioned her pending trip to the dentist for a cavity fill–and her extreme anxiety about it–left me mentally musing on my life to date as a dental patient.

“I detest the dentist!” responded one person to the above-mentioned post, while another, anticipating an hour of pain, exhorted, “Ask for everything they can give you.”

Hmmm. Call me warped, but for as long as I can remember, I’ve actually looked forward to my semiannual visits to the dental chair. It’s not that my experiences have been completely uncomplicated or pain-free, but ever since I was a schoolgirl receiving permission to leave class for a dental appointment, I’ve found dental check-ups oddly relaxing.

You want me to essentially recline on a chaise lounge while absorbing the warming rays of a heat lamp? Listen to soft rock or elevator-type music (effectively tuning out the drone of the drill in nearby rooms), and if I do chance to open my eyes, gaze at photos of cuddly bear cubs or peaceful nature scenes strategically situated on the ceiling? And all I have to do is open my mouth? O.K., I can manage that.

As a busy high school student, a quick walk across the street to the dentist’s office was a welcome respite from my frenetic academic, activities and work schedule–an unnegotiable period of downtime, if you will. I also welcomed the dental break when my three kids were infants, toddlers and elementary-aged tykes, because it was one of the few times I was entirely free of their innocent but unceasing demands.

Having been born in the era before sealants were de rigueur, but nevertheless possessing an incorrigible sweet tooth, I endured my share of drilled-and-filled cavities in my early years. It wasn’t fair that my older brother, who in the way of rough-and-tumble boys was often negligent of his oral hygiene until immediately before his dental appointment, had stronger, less deeply grooved teeth than I did and managed to escape each visit without a cavity while I, despite my diligent daily brushing, more often emerged with a “cavity fill” appointment slip in hand.

And I have not been totally immune to shiver-inducing dental moments. As a young professional living in the Twin Cities, it became clear my wisdom teeth needed to be removed. Without extra vacation days or family nearby, I opted to have the procedure done on a Friday afternoon–with local anesthetic, because I would have to drive myself back to my apartment, which my roommate was vacating for a weekend get-away. As I rode the elevator up to the dental office in St. Louis Park, a rumpled, balding man clutching a large McDonald’s bag hopped in, munching French fries and glancing absentmindedly at the ceiling; of course, 10 minutes later it turned out he was the oral surgeon who would remove my teeth.

The sound and sensation of the gouging and grinding as my lower wisdom teeth were wrenched from my mouth was not exactly my best TGIF experience. Armed with some codeine-laced Tylenol (then unaware I had a wicked sensitivity to the drug) for the pain, I made it to my apartment–and proceeded to spend the next 48 hours alone and horribly ill, crawling between my bedroom and the bathroom as I suffered from hallucinations, dry sockets, swollen jaws, dry heaves and a feeling, completely new to me, that I might not live until Monday morning.

But many Mondays have come and gone since then, and I retain a keen appreciation for the series of capable dentists who have kept my mouth and smile healthy and operational all these years. Not everyone in the world is so fortunate as to have regular dental care, which I believe is an underrated privilege.

While I cannot readily recall the names of the dentists I frequented during my Twin Cities decade, it is curious that my primary dentists have been Scandinavian-heavy–Dr. Anderson, Dr. Johnson and Dr. Sorensen. Their calming voices, cool, soap-scented hands and reassuring patient care couldn’t be further from the awful bedside manner demonstrated by the sadistic dentist Orin in the musical “Little Shop of Horrors.”

“I thrill when I drill a bicuspid,” croons the crooked Orin. “Say ‘aaahhh,’ now spit!”

Dental horror stories aside, with root canals, bridges and crowns perhaps yet in my future, I am grateful for the lifetime of healthy teeth and gums my dentists have helped me achieve–not to mention a few moments of enforced quiet time.

My next six-month check-up? Already on the books.

Listening to parents of kindergartners in the early fall often brings a smile to my face, along with a twinge of impatience, as they somewhat naively intone, “It was so hard to say goodbye to Mikey when the bus came.  How can he be in kindergarten already?  To think this is his first day of school!”

But those folks don’t have anything on the parents of high school seniors, who are all about the lasts from August through May.

Over and over I’ve heard friends and acquaintances with seniors bemoan throughout their child’s twelfth-grade year, “It’s Junior’s last baseball game,” or “Can you believe this is Susie’s final choir concert?” or “Where has the time gone? Stevie just took his last algebra test,” or, perhaps most commonly (and sometimes with nearly teary eyes), “It’s hard to believe this was Lacey’s last first day of school. I can’t think about her not being here next year!”

Now it’s my turn–I have a Class of 2013 senior, and the year is more than halfway over. But for me, these months haven’t been so much about all the “lasts” as they have been about the “firsts.” Why? Well, my senior is the first of three children, so he’s always been (for better or worse) the trailblazer for his parents and siblings in all things related to child-rearing and school.

How vividly I remember combing through “What to Expect When You’re Expecting,” closely followed by “What to Expect the First Year”–all the rage in parenting guides in the mid-’90s–and tracking each month’s progress, from pregnancy to his first birthday, with focus and intensity.  There was no “What to Expect the Second Year” published then, though, and I felt more than a little adrift after the lone birthday candle was blown out (atop his all-natural, no-sugar, whole wheat flour- and wheat germ-based cake–natch, it was my first kid).  What happens now? Isn’t the journey over? Can someone please tell me what to do NEXT?

Indeed, the parenting marathon was only just beginning, and I quickly realized those early days were the easy ones, though at the time they seemed the most difficult.  Haul a baby in a car seat? Manual labor, yes, but no sweat compared to when the little guy was running all over the place, evading the guiding parental hand in the grocery store parking lot or jumping off a seven foot-high ladder at the park. In those first months, naps were a given and there was almost no food refusal and no arguing, begging or complaining–just pure, sweet baby love.

Fast forward to 12th grade, and it’s once again all about the firsts–the first time to order a cap and gown, the first time to orchestrate a graduation party, the first time to file the FAFSA for financial aid (NOT our favorite), the first time to navigate the college search process, the first time to help a child prepare for leaving the nest, the first time to shepherd a son or daughter through a senior photo shoot.

And having a first son, rather than an eldest daughter, the indoor senior pictures took place only on President’s Day. “What’s the rush?” he’d asked last March when area photographers began inundating the mailbox with discount offers for timely bookings.  ”I’m not a senior yet.”

Hence, it was just this week that we schlepped a few different outfits and some school activity paraphernalia to a local photo studio. There, I finally felt the circle nearing its close, remembering having carried him in my arms into the very same space for 9-month-old photos shortly after moving here almost 18 years ago.  This time, the six-footer walked in on his own two size-12 feet, with plenty of opinions to match his confident stride.

As the same photographer helped him pose and preen for a variety of shots, it was impossible not to feel the rush of time gone by and to contemplate the multitude of “teachable moments,” highs, lows, accidents and triumphs that had filled the intervening years.

But still, it was another first for us, with two more kids yet to pass through these same senior rituals and hurdles.  As the months bound ahead, we will have conquered another round of firsts, thanks to this first child, and hopefully he will have gained something from us just as we have from him. So this year, I refuse to dwell on the lasts but will continue to celebrate the firsts.

After all, one definition of “commencement” is “a formal beginning.”

Ah, the late ’70s. In those halcyon days of yore, Mankato adolescents flocked to pinball parlors, like Aladdin’s Castle in the (now essentially defunct, then brand-new) downtown Mankato Mall. Positioned across from a movie theater, it was the perfect lure for teenage boys, who were seeking to impress each other (as well as gaggles of giggling girls) with their prowess at Tron, Galaga, Space Invaders and whatever other games and flashing machines they could get their hands on and dump their quarters into.

Up on “the hill,” where Cine II was a draw and adjoined the infamous Albatross bar, another game arcade–a little brighter, maybe more spacious than the one downtown–also welcomed bravado-flushed teens sporting pimples and coin-filled pockets. Girls vying for the attention of a certain guy would hang out by the machine as he twitched the flippers, in an always ultimately vain effort to keep the steel balls from falling down the drain, into oblivion, game over.

How many times did I watch that process, or try it myself (usually scoring very poorly), and never fail to see the ball succumb to the hole, no matter the purported skill of the player involved? And yet I’ve learned it’s even harder as an adult–and as a parent, especially–to keep the ball from hitting the drain daily. Navigating work, household duties, volunteer commitments and the gamut of children’s activities requires more skill, more balance, more timing and more patience than any teenage Joust operator could have ever imagined.

Guaranteed: in the pinball game of life, mistakes will be made and lights will flash, buzzers sound and “game over” will occur if your pinball doesn’t hit the right bumper at a precise moment, with greater–though occasionally amusing–consequences than at Aladdin’s Castle.

Dashing back and forth between a hockey tournament and a swim meet is one pinball-like test I’ve experienced. I leave the chilly environs of the ice arena after seeing my skater play his first period, shedding my boots for flip-flops, dropping the scarf for a t-shirt and losing the coat while en route to the more tropical ambience of the City of Worthington Aquatics Center. After maybe a short stint of timing or watching my older two kids dive into their lanes for a couple of races, it’s back to the ice arena to catch the third period of the hockey game–and back on go the layers as I prepare to shiver. The words I never want to hear (but nevertheless have) upon my breathless return are, “Your kid just got an assist/goal!”  BEEP! This is the same ricocheting trail the pinball takes, shooting back and forth across the board, trying against all odds to stay in play even as everything conspires against it.

Last weekend was a classic: Friday night found me at the keyboard in the “Hairspray” pit band while two of my kids were on stage and the third played a hockey game. Come Saturday morning, it was a mad dash out the door to Mankato for the section swim meet, while the hockey player and dad stayed put for a local game. Then it was a daredevil trek back home, in snow and progressively worsening road conditions, trying to beat the clock for the kids’ theatrical hair and makeup call and my band warm-up time.  Made it–250 points for the mom in the mini-van!

No wonder that when I recently slipped a frozen pizza in the oven for a quick meal the crust was hard to cut–I’d neglected to remove the supportive cardboard circle, so it was nicely toasted (though the pizza’s bottom was not).  BUZZ!

Or how about the morning just a few weeks ago when, as I darted about the kitchen tossing backpacks at departing teens, buttering toast and slapping together a lunch for my spouse, I inadvertently included a beer instead of a Diet Coke in his bag? I heard it was quite a scene in the courthouse break room when Mr. Justice o’ the Peace nearly popped the top off the contraband beverage before being alerted to the error in the nick of time. Missed the hit, failure to connect, ball down the drain.

Game over?

Not quite. Later in the afternoon of the beer-for-lunch day I received this jocular text message from one of my husband’s colleagues: “Can you pack my lunch tomorrow? A six-pack will do just fine.”

Double bonus! Extra ball! The pinball wizard plays on.

It’s not often you see a sight like this at Worthington High School: all the Caucasian kids sitting on one side of the room, all the students of color on the other side.

But that was the strange and oddly jarring scene that greeted me when I arrived at the WHS choir room one afternoon in late November to accompany at auditions for the WHS All-School Musical, “Hairspray,” which is now set for performances this Thursday through Sunday.

Due to the “Hairspray” plot, which is set in 1962 Baltimore and revolves around the plump but white Tracy Turnblad’s efforts to win a spot on “The Corny Collins Show”–which happens to ban all kids of color except on the one day a month designated as “Negro Day”–a segregated cast is called for to make the story line believable.

Tracy is a free spirit who loves everyone–even the “bum on his barroom stool” and “the flasher who lives next door,” as she cheerfully intones in the peppy opening number, “Good Morning Baltimore.”  She is also open-minded and, despite the pressure all around her to shun people of color, very happy to learn from and make friends with the “Negro kids,” who are often unfairly punished and placed in detention–where, led by Seaweed, they make the best of things and practice their dance moves.

Of course, it’s some of those new-fangled, down-and-dirty dance moves that help Tracy catch the attention of her major crush, Link Larkin, who the spoiled and bratty Amber Von Tussle leads around by the nose.  Tracy isn’t one to forget her friends, so she vows to help Seaweed and his gang integrate “The Corny Collins Show,” never mind that it “simply isn’t done” in 1962 Baltimore.

“Would you swim in an integrated pool?” demands Velma Von Tussle, producer of “The Corny Collins Show,” when Tracy shows up to audition.  ”I sure would,” pipes up Tracy.  ”I’m all for integration.  It’s the new frontier!”

Integrated pools are nothing new, thank goodness, in Worthington, where everyone is used to seeing people of all colors and ethnicities on a daily basis–on the streets, in passing cars, at the grocery store, workplace and gas station.  No place is our rainbow of resident color more evident than the public schools; around 65 percent of District 518′s student population is now comprised of minorities, so students at every level are familiar with the potpourri of color and backgrounds represented by their peers.

Interracial relationships–like the one that develops in “Hairspray” between Penny Pingleton and Seaweed–are common, and accepted.  Kids of all types work together, chat together, eat together, learn together, and it all seems to flow just right.  Heck, my college-bound senior son rebelled after visiting a campus where the majority of collegiates “look all the same”–which was to say, blonde and blue-eyed like him.  But he has grown comfortable, familiar and even dependent on the variety of students around him, recognizing how the diversity itself has enriched his life and experiences, and seeks to continue that at his next educational level.

Watching the 56-member cast of “Hairspray” work together in the past weeks of rehearsal, even as they are sometimes separated for purposes of the show, is heartwarming.  Skin color means nothing to these kids; if anything, they dislike that sense of separation, and friends are parted from friends from scene to scene.

Alicia Khatt is a junior involved in the high school musical for the first time.  Her parents came to the U.S. from Laos, but she has lived in Worthington all her life.  She is adorable as one of the three “Dynamites,” and her comments provide great insight into the students’ perspective.

“The musical is really a great experience,” said Khatt last week.  ”It’s a great atmosphere, and one of the best things about it is I get to spend more time hanging out with my best friend, Laura Wetering.”  Wetering is of English and Dutch descent, and the two girls are inseparable backstage, giggling and bantering with each other and a broader group.

“When I grow up, I’ll tell my kids about how fun it was to be in the musical and try new things,” attested Khatt.

From where I sit–this week, backstage at a keyboard in the pit orchestra–the rainbow spread before me is a beautiful thing.

“Hairspray” plays at Memorial Auditorium Thursday through Saturday at 7:30 p.m., and Sunday at 2:30 p.m.  All tickets are reserved seating; advance purchase continues in the WHS lobby today and Wednesday from 11 a.m. to 1 p.m.  Tickets will also be available one hour before each showtime at Memorial Auditorium.