This is the latest Smartmom from the  Brooklyn Papers. Pick up your copy every Friday at Key Food, Conn. Muffin, Haggen Daz, Cousin Johns (to name a few) or visit Brooklyn Papers.com.

Smartmom cried on the Oh So Feisty One’s last day of school this
week. She always does. They were quiet tears: quickly-brushed-away
tears, and tears-that-got-stuck-in-the-middle-of-her-throat tears.

There is something about seeing the teachers coming out of PS 321
with the children they have been teaching for the past year that really
moves her. The teachers look near tears themselves.

On the last day of first grade eight years ago, Teen Spirit’s
teacher was wearing the same floral print dress she wore on the very
first day when she was welcoming the children.

That killed Smartmom. Just slayed her.

On Wednesday, Smartmom observed OSFO, slightly stooped from a
backpack stuffed with the contents of her desk, as she walked away from
her third-grade teachers and classmates — the people who, for a year,
formed an important part of her world.

She and her friends looked a little dazed. They held their
Build-a-Bears and Build-a-Dogs, who had married, divorced, re-married,
and had children during the year in a complex social dance that played
out at recess.

Some of the children cried and hugged (Smartmom couldn’t tell if the
bears were crying). Other kids looked scared and uncertain about the
future. Many were, of course, tremendously excited to begin summer
vacation. Such a mixed blessing: the end of one thing, the beginning of
the next.

After the good-byes, the teacher thank-yous, the hugs, and the “see
you next years,” the parents ripped open the report card envelopes to
see which teacher they (er, their child) would have next year.

“Who’d you get?” was heard all over the schoolyard.

The answer was on the last page of the report card. But to
complicate matters, PS 321 gives the room number, not the teacher’s
name.

“Whose class is 318?”

“Does anyone know the teacher in 327?”

Parents attempted to match a number with a name. There was one savvy
parent walking around with the PS 321 directory, giving out the vital
information. Everyone gathered around that person.

Finding out about next year’s teacher is the de facto moment of
truth. The parents who got a desired teacher had looks of satisfaction
as they put the report card back in its small manila envelope.

But the parents who got an unfamiliar teacher, or Buddha forbid, a name that they didn’t want, offered looks of
disappointment, even anger.

And consider the children: “All my friends are in one class. I’m all alone,” Smartmom overheard one girl say tearfully.

Smartmom experienced a “now what?” feeling. The quest to find
companions for next year was suddenly replaced with the great expanse
of summer vacation.

It was a snap transition from schoolness to no schoolness and it felt a little empty, even lonely.

When they got back to the apartment, Smartmom and OSFO got out the
Pillsbury cookie dough and started baking for the end-of-school party
that OSFO had planned for her friends and their stuffed animals later
in the afternoon.

From the end of the hallway, Smartmom heard Teen Spirit, who has
been out of school for more than a week, stirring in his bedroom.

“It’s 12:30. Time to get up!” Smartmom yelled. At 15, Teen Spirit is
thrilled to be free of the shackles and chains of school life. Now he
just wants to sleep late and watch movies.

The fact that he hasn’t figured out what he’s doing this summer is
making Smartmom increasingly nervous. Initially he considered being a
CIT at his old day camp.

“But I sort of want to be able to sleep late on my summer vacation,” he said.

For the last week he’s been spending most of his time figuring out
chords on his new left-handed acoustic guitar and listening to his iPod
instead of canvassing Seventh Avenue shops for summer employment.

Smartmom emailed friends, trying to drum up a summer job for her nearly 6-foot baby boy.

“He’s handsome, smart, well read, and a fount of world knowledge,” she wrote. “Work experience: None.”

While the cookies were baking, a friend called to see if Teen Spirit
would be willing to feed a guinea pig, a parrot, clean the guinea pig’s
cage, and water plants while she was away on a week’s vacation.

Sure, Smartmom said, he loves that sort of thing. Not. But she knew he needed the work. Make that: Smartmom needed him to work.

Smartmom volunteered Teen Spirit to do something he probably
wouldn’t want to do. There would almost certainly be a fight. Nasty
words would be strewn about. She winced at the thought of the conflict
that was practically a daily fact of life.

Smartmom knocked on Teen Spirit’s door to wake him up and talk to him
about his summer plans. Specifically about his upcoming stint as a
guinea-pig-cage cleaner. Then she decided better of it and went back to
baking cookies. There was plenty of time for conflict. Later.

While OSFO squirted purple frosting on her just-baked cookies,
Smartmom read OSFO’s report card to sustain the connection with what
they’d just left behind: the class trips, the poetry celebrations,
class 320’s arctic museum…

There would be plenty of time to ponder what the summer would hold,
and to prevent Teen Spirit’s descent into slackerdom. But for the
afternoon, it helped to hold onto the report card, the backpack, the
stack of class work, the hard-to-store artwork.

Like a baby’s security blanket, these transitional objects would smooth the way into the next new thing.