A Manual For Molting

In second grade, Hadley watched caterpillars grow into butterflies.

This probably says a terrible amount about my educational endeavors, but I remember doing this project in college. I remember walking to the science building early in the morning and again at the end of the day to check on the caterpillars.

I find it peaceful thinking about Hadley walking into her classroom each morning, taking a look at the caterpillars and writing down an observation. What a nice practice, to walk into the world and take note of a thing or two.

It seems you’d have to get pretty close to a bug to count how many legs are missing.

C’mon Hadley, give the gal some credit.  She’s growing into something new.  That can make one pretty hungry!

It’s always good to have a friend along in the world who can help you wonder some more about what it is you’re looking at.  There are so many mysteries growing up, and so many of them can only be interpreted by good friends. Preferably, sharing french fries and Diet Cokes.

Those darn messes. It’s hard to see what it is we’re becoming when we are such messes. It’s hard to even believe we’ll get to whatever it is we’re supposed to be. And the questions! When will this be over? Why is this happening, anyway? When will I be the thing I’m supposed to be?

Yes, we need more food. Snacks are always a good rule of thumb.

It’s OK you’re not quite where I thought you were, L’il Jack. You’re taking form. You’re getting ready. I will decorate your name so that you are in it. You have been identified.

Typical Hadley: I was so excited for this one thing to happen. WHEN IS THE NEXT THING GOING TO HAPPEN?!?!?!

I remember, though, hearing about what it would be like to be older – in middle school, or high school – and thinking, “When is that going to happen? What will I look like then? What will I be like?”

Oh man, would I LOVE to know what happened to Davion’s caterpillar.  I’ve been hearing about this kid since Kindergarten, and I have no doubt that there is a story behind why he has a new caterpillar. I supposed that’s the thing about shedding skin and molting; you can’t stop it from happening and sometimes it’s hard to take care while it happens. There are so many things to hang on to when you’re becoming a butterfly.

Oh, dear.  What is going to happen?

Jack did it!  He became a butterfly! Tell you what, I’d need a drink too, if my skin was cut and bleeding after crawling out of a chrysalis.

I love this, “The top of the wings are pretty. The bottom are not.” Yup, sounds like the beginning of adolescence. Almost there, but not quite. This is the magic time though, don’t you think? We get to watch those wings form completely; maybe we get to help shape the design.

I got tears in my eyes when I read this one. “Go!” the little girl in the picture is saying as the butterfly makes his way into the world. “But look out for your brother, because one of his wings is broken.” I love Hadley for so many reasons, but this page sums up her personality so well: Go play in the world because it’s for you, but look out for everybody. Take care of them if you can.

If I could be an extravert, I would want to be just like Hadley.

My thesis for graduate school is titled “A Manual for Molting,” and I was reminded of the stories I wrote reading Hadley’s journal. The longest story, the one I’d love to make into a book someday, is about growing up (a new concept, I know) and I use cicadas molting as a metaphor. It’s my favorite thing I’ve written, and I don’t know if it’ll ever see the light of day, but in the last scene, the main character is walking towards home after stepping off the “el.” She’s with her best friend and their PROM dates. The four of them say their goodbyes and the main character is left sitting on her front steps listening to the oak trees sway over head and the rattling of the train rushing towards the city.

“I’ve had fun with you,” the main character’s PROM date whispers.

“I know he doesn’t only mean tonight. I know he’s talking about the red pepper flakes, the world’s largest hop-scotch, the beach, and rollerblading, the ski trip, and the business of growing up together.

“I’ve had fun with you,” I return.

It’s enough. We don’t need to say more because we don’t know more. We’ve had fun together and whatever comes next, this part won’t change.

Cicadas leave their adolescent skin behind so they can fly into adulthood. But those old shells will cling to the fence, holding perfectly the form of what was, while the body has moved somewhere else.