Last week I ran into another mom in the grocery store while I was pushing you, Rosie, in the car cart through the cereal section. I had just picked you up from preschool and you were helping me pick out snacks for your big sister’s backpack.
Turns out we needed to pack snacks for kindergarten, a line in the welcome packet I must have skimmed past 60 times and still didn’t register until you, Edie, informed me three days in. You were snarfing down a granola bar and I was horrified thinking how hungry you must have been watching the other kids take their apples and fruit snacks out after recess for three days straight. A lump formed in the back of my throat and I wanted to cry. I thought I had it under control. Turns out I didn’t really.
But you, dear Edie. You totally did.
I was retelling this story to the mom in the grocery store, adding that I had spent the entire day in and out of those tears because when I watched you, Edie, walk so confidently into those big doors, a music montage of your entire childhood and your future rolled through my head. Then suddenly you were grown and I was helping you pack your car to leave me. Like really leave. And it shook me up a little bit.
Also, did I mention you kicked me out of the room the first day of school? I held your hand and helped you find your desk. You sat down, folded your hands in your lap and I took your picture. You asked me how many more pictures I needed and then you asked me when it was time for the parents to leave.
“Do you want me to leave?” I was surprised. You’re usually so shy. But you whispered “Yes,” confidently in my ear, and so off I went then. Into my own new realm of parenthood, the realm where neither of you are babies anymore.
That mom in the store could relate. She told me she cried in her car and then wrote her son a letter to open when he graduates from high school. She said it was five pages. Or maybe it was more. And she said I should do the same. To write you a letter. And the thing is, I’m a writer. I write about you two all the time. But to write to you? She was right. I should.
When I was getting ready to head to surgery to get my tumor removed a little over a year ago, I was terrified of leaving you two without a mother (you may not remember, but you girls regularly trace the line of my scar with your little fingers, ask if it still hurts and then when I say no, we reassure one another that I’m OK now).
And so I thought I should do just that, to write you each a letter, just in case I had to leave you before I was ready. I thought maybe I could look ahead and try to imagine a world in which I wasn’t there for you for things like this: your first day of preschool Rosie, and kindergarten Edie. For your big wins and heartbreaks, for all the fights over hair and outfits and nights that got too late and the trouble you’ll get into as you search for yourself.
But I couldn’t bear the thought of it. I couldn’t find the words just as I can’t seem to find them here today. Except that I never want to forget, Rosie, that some mornings you cry because your oatmeal spoon has oatmeal on it. And Edie, we told you twice last week not to get too close to the stock dam, and twice you got stuck so deep in the mud we had to get a shovel to dig your shoes out.
So I told you that, and now I guess I’ll tell you this: The world is going to be that oatmeal spoon and that black, sticky mud sometimes. It’s either going to seem fine to everyone else, but not to you, or seem fine to you, but not to everyone else. While it’s our job as parents right now to keep you fed and safe and out of the deep end, it’s my hope that we can raise you to be so completely and incredibly yourselves that you’re not scared of being scared or uncomfortable or a little bit lost. You’ll know how to ask for a hand, and how to generously give of yours.
In this milestone, dear daughters, the one where you are letting go of my hand, I can’t tell you how honored and grateful I am to be here, watching you, ready for when you need it again.
And also, dear daughters. You have kindness in you. Let it shine out your ears.
You are brave. Let that bravery lift up others.
You are ours and you are wonderfully you and we are so proud of you.
P.S. I bought you some Twinkies