In some ways – it seems but a
minute since I found out I was expecting you.
I still remember the joy. And the
panic. You can never be truly ready for
parenthood, the unknown – no matter how much other people try to tell you – is just
too great. We planned for you for 9
months, and still had no idea what we were doing the day we brought you
home. You were a marvel. So perfect and tiny and needy. I remember your milk drunk sleepy face, and
exactly how you smelt as you fell asleep next to me after your 2 AM
feeding. I remember the exhaustion and
the fear. But mostly I remember the
wonder. And the joy. Your every smile,
every milestone, every tiny grasp of my finger.
You’ve grown and changed so much
over the last 16 years. You’ve evolved from this perfect, tiny, needy infant to
this perfect, beautiful, marvelous, magic, almost adult woman. It has been my complete privilege to watch
you in this metamorphosis. And my
darling, you have made this journey beautifully. The change from child to adult
is never smooth, is never easy, and truthfully never over. But in the process, you’ve taught me and
changed me so much.
You taught me what fear really
was. I was afraid of many things in my
childhood and early adult hood. When I
say anxiety has always been my constant companion, I’m not exaggerating. But
feeling you move and stretch within me as the towers fell on 9/11 left me
wrecked beyond anything I had ever known.
How could I bring a child into a world this evil? But each day beyond that, I felt my heart in
my throat with every breath you took, every small cough and fever, every
tumble. The days you didn’t want to talk
to me, the days you did. The nights you
stayed up late and I could hear you in your room, the mornings when I called up
to wake you and you didn’t answer immediately.
Even now as I watch you make decisions that could impact your future, as
I watch you navigate the social mazes of young adulthood, as I watch you drive
the next several stages of your life – I find myself short of breath and teary
eyed with fear and worry.
You also taught me about the beauty
of hope. It’s not always been an easy
journey – in fact some days it’s been almost impossible, but watching you
bloom, watching you fight through the battles, the mire of all you face, and
hearing your laughter on the other side is possibly the most beautiful artwork
I’ve ever seen you create. I see hope
and beauty in every smile you flash, every sarcastic joke, every plan you make.
I look at you and your friends, and
think that the world is in good hands. My fear is sometimes overwhelming, but
hope always wins out when I see your face.
Thank you for being a beacon of light even if it wasn’t your goal.
You taught me about the power of
art. I’m not the creative type, I find security
in structure and routine. Prior to you –
I might have visited an art museum out of obligation, but not out of
enjoyment. And it would be untruthful to
say that your creative tendencies haven’t caused conflict in our relationship,
as your messy craft area would make me insane as I attempted to clean up all
the glitter (SO. MUCH. GLITTER). But, oh
child, to see what you create. To hear
you sing. To watch you perform. To see
you paint. Your talent is outmatched
only by the joy that shows on your face as you create. I’ve never understood art – until I watched
you. From childhood plays and handprint
art, to high school productions, talent shows, six-foot paintings and floral
arrangements…. completely beautiful, and with the power to bring me to
tears. Never stop. The world needs you, your art, your
story. Wherever your life takes you, whatever
career you find. . .never stop creating.
Sixteen is a big year – and I can
feel the tightness in my chest when I think of the changes that are coming for
us quickly. I’m imagining a day when I
help you move out and knowing that it is coming faster than I can process. I realize that every milestone is a marker on
a timeline of your independence. And
some days it gets me. I find myself holding tighter and tighter to things and
ideas when I should be letting go.
I have this rising sense of panic
that I’ve still so much to teach you in the next two years. I still hold out hope that you’ll one day
learn to clean your room (really clean, not just stuff things under the bed/in
the closet/behind the desk) and to wash your sheets and rinse your dishes. But
mostly I wonder, did I teach you to be strong, loving, and kind? Did I drive that home as much as I did the
ideas of doing your homework and eating your vegetables?
You are so capable – of doing
whatever you decide. I’ve seen you battle
through so much and I hope you look back at that and find strength again when
you need it. You are a fighter, I can
see it in the tilt of your head and the daring sparkle of your eye. And I pray
that you will hold that fight deep in the pit of your stomach and let it rise
up when you face the next challenge, whatever it might be. But you can also always lean on your father
and I. There is no weakness in seeking
help, and sometimes being strong means being strong enough to know your limits,
to know when the best decision is support. You are so strong my love. Let that strength ground you, and ease your
worries. You’ve got this, because we’ve
got this together.
I want to remind you to choose to
love. Someone told me that once at a
bridal shower. . .”to always chose to love.” And it kind of stuck. Not just in marriage, but in every
relationship, friendship, interaction. Everyone is deserving of love. Everyone needs it. Sometimes loving others feels easy and
automatic. But loving people is a hard
choice somedays. Because people are
weird, and frustrating, and different from you.
But chose to love them anyway.
Your friends, your teachers, your parents (ahem) – even when they mess
up, even when they drive you crazy.
Even then. Especially then.
Be
kind. Recognize from your own stories
and experiences that kindness fixes the brokenness. And the brokenness isn’t always visible, but
each person you know is broken in some way.
Reach out to those you can see are hurting and give them a small smile,
an encouraging hug, an extra cookie. And
remember that those that you can’t see hurting would probably still like those
things too. I see you doing this already
with me – you can tell when I’m fighting a hard day, and you inevitably reach
out with a pat on my back as I cook supper, a snuggle on the couch as I stare
at the next day’s to-do list. And it glues
me back together for just a bit. Spread
that around my love, and watch as it fixes others, and yourself.
I’m
glad I’ve got a few more years, I’m glad that day is not today. . .but mostly I
want to tell you how incredibly blessed I am to be your mom. You made me a
mom. You taught me fear, and love, and
hope, and beauty. You’ve had to put up
with being my firstborn, and have had to take on the brunt of my parenting
mistakes as I floundered between promoting your independence and clinging to
your childhood. And we’ll still navigate
those waters together, for the next two years. . .and probably forever. I’m proud of you. I love you.
Always.
