Francesca Stamati: Harbinger may have warped her sense of time, but it also stuffed lifetimes of memories into four years

Harbinger, you broke my clock.

People say high school goes by fast. Not for me. In just four years on staff, I’ve lived four lifetimes, aging to a 56-year-old mother of 83 teenagers.

It wasn’t all stories and designs. I’ve seen things. I’ve done things. 

I’ve graduated from medical school, ugly-cried at my wedding and literally gone by five names. I’ve held my kids steady by their curled fingers as they wobbled their first steps and, years later, nudged them into the doors of their first job. I’ve developed a hell of a scrapbook.

First was my AP Style MD, earned after countless long hours in the operating room (Google Docs). I’ve edited over 300 stories, dissecting each sentence as if five words were life or death. Surgically slicing and operating on paragraphs. Probably using way too many em dashes in the process — but hey, I still passed with a degree in lacerating Oxford commas. 

But no memory compares to the waterworks that were shed on my wedding day. The moment I said “I do” to this staff. Hardened by late nights tweaking designs and rewriting drafts, I thought I was incapable of crying until I saw the ring — a golden paper crown too small for my head — and a certificate that ordained me Assistant Print Editor. For sophomore-me, already well into my 20s and onto my third nickname, that was everything. I was all in.

In the end, I did it all for my children. Co-parenting with Peyton to raise 83 already gifted teenage prodigies, we clutched new staffers’ hands through summer boot camps before launching them into the open waters of the first print cycle — like teaching babies to swim, the old-fashioned way. But the real gift of parenting has been watching Katie and Greyson pen stories that make my jaw drop and mind soar. My pride for this staff’s award-winning feats matches that of a smug parent whose kid won the spelling bee.

After all of that, I dare anyone to tell me I’m just 18 years old. Evolving through 56 cycles of issues with deadlines that have stretched well past 4 a.m. has earned me the right to count my years on a two-week calendar. Brainstorm. Work week. Deadline. Repeat.

You could say it’s been the story of my life.

Consider this string of hyperboles my multi-lifetime autobiography, and know that if I could live it all over again, I simply wouldn’t have the stamina — but I sure love the drama of reminiscing.