When I Woke Up

At thirty years old I walked my son into kindergarten orientation. He was a fresh, adorable five-year-old with a big smile and absolute self-confidence. He let me gel his hair that day. He'd picked out a lunch box, and I don't remember what it was.

Round tables were set up in the gym of his school. We picked a seat near the middle, because I wanted us to appear friendly and open to meeting new friends. Joey tried to sit on my lap, but I made him take his own seat. He looked around, that grin never leaving his face. He was happy just to be there. A great big kindergartener.

I hushed the voice in my head that wanted to scream, "Please! Please, please love my child. He is creative and funny and caring...and also, he's terribly sensitive, and if eats Cheez-Its on a hot day he might throw up. And call me if you need anything! I'm still trying to master teleportation but I'll get here lickety-split!"

I watched other moms walk their children in. You can tell the difference between the first-timers and the more-experienced parents. Some let their children run away from them, too far ahead to possibly catch. Their faces showed no apprehension, their mouths were relaxed into smiles as they called, "Hello!" to other calm parents.

I was the youngest one, and I felt like everyone knew it. I was sure I had an aura visible to all of the other adults in the room that said, "She doesn't know what she's doing."

But my Joey sat beside me, his feet swinging in the too-large chair. Every time his gaze fell on me that smile widened, his eyes lit up, and he said, "I can't believe I'm in kindergarten!"

He believed, unfailingly, that I knew exactly what I was doing. My perfect boy.

I went to bed that night, my heart racing. A broken record played in my head: "Please! Please, please love my child. He is creative and funny and caring...."

When I woke up the very next morning, I heard him down the hall. I called out, "Joey! Joey?"

And this emerged from his bedroom:

Just like that.

Today I took him to his eighth grade orientation at the very same school. Some of the students from his kindergarten class have left and moved on, other kids joined his group in later years. To see him sitting at the table today with those other gigantic boys...are they MEN? dear GAWD...slouched down in the chair with his feet sprawled across the floor, all of them laughing at some goofy thing. There were a few remember-whens from them, and my heart did a somersault.

What happened? How did I kiss a five-year-old goodnight and wake up to an eighth grader?

College Good-Bye

My hands are poised at the keyboard, the screen is glowing, and I'm all alone downstairs in my dark house while my boys sleep. My cheeks are wet with silly tears. I'm crying because of all that I have, and all that life is, and everything in between.

Today I left this little person in a parking lot.

Except...somewhere along the line, it turns out that that little girl actually grew into this:

And it wasn't just any parking lot. It was a college parking lot.


What the hell?

For years my family has rolled their eyes at me, repeating what has become a mantra: She's not your daughter.

No. No, she isn't. But she still asked me to come today. And then, with brown, scared eyes she asked me not to leave her. But I had to. For a million reasons, not least of which is that my sister pulled her away and my mother (who also came) pulled me back. Torn apart, like the elephants in Dumbo.

Okay, I admit that's a bit dramatic.

She will be okay. I'm not worried that she won't. I'm excited for all that she will grow to be. I remember this fierce little monster girl, about three years old, with shiny red ringlets and a scrunched up nose, singing into a turkey baster on the coffee table. A little girl who whispered, "Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!" in our ears when she thought her mother couldn't hear. You'd never guess she was once that little ball of fire who had us all laughing...everybody's baby. She has become so much. Tall, for one thing. (Ridiculously unfair. I'm having flashbacks to my first day of kindergarten when I cried in the driveway because my mother told me I'd never be tall.) But she is smart. Creative. Classy. And...I know it shouldn't matter, but it's just icing on the cake. She's so beautiful.

Why do we love people? A million different reasons, I guess. Livvie isn't perfect, you know. My own kids aren't either. They drive me crazy. Liv has always driven me a little crazy, especially on her bad days. But maybe that's part of it. Family love. Mother love. Sister love. I'm neither her mom nor her sister. I'm her aunt. I'm her godmother. I never knew, eighteen years ago, how much that would fill my heart. Or in what ways. I don't love her for her talents or her strengths. I don't love her in spite of her flaws. I love her because I love her. It doesn't need to make sense. It doesn't need a reason. It just is.

My arms were locked around her today like iron bars and she shook with quiet tears. I whispered, "Remember what I said. Call me. Call me any time. Middle of the night. I don't care. You call me."

"Okay," she whispered back.

I would do anything for her.

She will learn life. She needs to. She will rediscover that fire we all found so irresistible all those years ago. I hope with all my heart she manages to mesh it with who she was today: my classy, smart girl, poised to hide her fears. She will be unstoppable. The little pip who stood with her hands on her hips and her chin lifted up while she stared you down. Whatever she decides to do with the next four years, and all that she encounters after that...it will be amazing. I have no doubt.

But in the meantime, my heart is here.

My head is here.

And my girl is there.

Olivia, you are loved. You are the most loved child I've ever known. 

You've just been handed the world. I can't wait to see what you do with it.

Whatever that is, I'll be here for you. I love you always, no matter what.

Love, Your Goddy