Grace

Dear Grace,

When you were little, before you could say “v,” you used to talk about having adwentures.  Nana wanted to get me a vanity plate for my car, actually, that said ADWENTURE.

And now you’re off on your biggest adwenture yet.

Back in the days when our adwentures took us to the Children’s Museum and the Aquarium, I had a conversation with a dear friend from college.  In that conversation, which I remember vividly, I said that my most devout hope in raising a daughter was that she grow up to be smart and brave (I might, now, add kind and thoughtful to that).  Well, you’ve exceeded every hope I ever had.  You are smart and brave, and it is those traits, along with your love of adwenture, that are propelling you on this next step.

This present is both precisely the future that I dreamed about – a brave, independent daughter, flying towards her dreams – and the hardest thing I’ve ever done as a parent.  I’ve known this day was coming – the day you would leave – since you were born.  Our family believes in boarding school so I always knew this was a distinct possibility; it was a likelihood, even. And yet it has absolutely knocked me over with how hard it is, the saying goodbye. I know you know this since you saw me tearful a lot this summer.  I am sorry about that, but I also know you know it’s the shadow side of how much I’ve loved this season.  It’s not an exaggeration to say that these years with small and then larger children at home have been my favorite of my life.  So far!  Who knows: what’s ahead may dazzle me.  I hope, and frankly sort of expect, that it will.

One thing that will never change is how much I love you.  That’s only been growing since we greeted you, with your shock of dark hair and wailing cries, after a long, long, long labor.  I will never be able to fully express to you how grateful I am that it was you that the universe decided would be my first child.  I delivered you myself, that morning of October 26, 2002, and since then, in ways big and small, we’ve felt like a team.  You’ll always be the person who made me a mother, and we’ve learned a lot together.  That’s not over now, by the way.  There’s a lot I still want to talk to you about and teach you, and vice versa.  Our reality may look different now, but I know our bond is only growing stronger.

You’ve made being a parent easy, Grace.  It hasn’t always felt smooth, but I know the bumps have been small.  Had I listed all the things you are when I described my fantasy first child, the other person would have told me I was asking for too much. You’ve surpassed every dream I had for you. You make me prouder than I can possibly put into words.

So, my brave and smart daughter, my child who is taller than I am and a full-blown young woman, I’m watching you with tears in my eyes and joy in my heart as you dash towards your newest and biggest adwenture.  You are in the woods, and I’m standing at the finish line cheering, waiting for you to emerge.

Run your own race. I say this all the time and I know you know it. Study hard, run fast, get some sleep, make some lifetime friends and connect with an amazing teacher or two. I know firsthand the power of a school like the one where you are to change your life. The years  before now have been golden, Grace, and I’ll never forget them.  I’m just as sure that what lies ahead will be wonderful.  Hold my hand, and let’s go.

I love you, and I always will, and I am truly excited to watch you fly.

Mum

my favorite recent picture of you, from last Saturday

Dear Grace,

Fourteen.  Fourteen.  I know I’m a broken record, a sad cliche, but really?  That incredibly rainy day when you arrived after a long, long labor – which I’ve written about incessantly – seems like yesterday.  It hovers around my experience on a daily basis, seriously: it was the day I became a mother, and everything shifted from that moment. Because of you.

No matter what, you’ll always be the person who made me a mother.

I have a lot of identities, and I hope one thing you’ll learn as you grow up is that being many things with and to many people is a recipe for a full and meaningful life (though not always a restful one).  But there’s no question that the most essential identity I hold is mother.  You should never, ever doubt that.

Today that 7 pound, 9 ounce baby with a head full of dark hair and a predilection towards screaming and sleeplessness is fourteen.  We are squarely in the teens now, and I’m afraid of jinxing us, but so far it’s going fairly smoothly.  You’re definitely a teenager.  When I say fairly smoothly I don’t mean to imply there aren’t hiccups. Your emotions run deep and your moods can be powerful.  I’m still figuring out the line between behavior that is unacceptable and a normal episode where you are just pushing off the wall (as Lisa Damour says – if you have a daughter and haven’t read Untangled, I highly recommend it).

But so far, so far, the red cord that ties our hearts is intact.  Stretching, yes, but definitely there.  I’m immensely grateful for that. I’ve written a letter like this to you for many years (thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six) but it feels harder now, surely because you are increasingly your own person. For the record you always have been – I’ve always maintained you and Whit have never, not for a second, belonged to us.  But these days, more and more, your stories are your own and I feel cautious about telling them.  I guard your privacy and am careful about sharing about you.

You are within a half inch of my height, your feet are bigger than mine, and you regularly wear my clothes. I can no longer reliably buy clothes for you, so we go together instead (as someone who shops almost entirely online, this is something I’ve had to adjust to). You are studious and hardworking and committed to school.  Your handwriting looks like it came from a typewriter and you are very organized. Your school planner and your flash cards are color-coded.  Your room is the neatest in the house by a mile: you are ruthless about clutter and regularly get rid of things, which makes my similarly-inclined heart sing. When I reread this paragraph, these details make you sound humorless, which isn’t true.  You love to craft and bake and decorate your room for every holiday, we watch Survivor religiously together, and often laugh so hard my stomach hurts.

You have been running with the varsity cross-country team at school this fall and really enjoying it.  Despite the races being longer and the teammates older, you’re enjoying it more than before.  I love seeing this. You’ve gotten to be friendly with some of your teammates and take training and racing seriously.  I go to most of your races and stand there, eyes inevitably filled with tears, and watch you as you start and then, as you finish.  As others have noted and as I’ve written before, cross-country is a profound metaphor for parenting. There is no question in my mind that you’re in the woods now, and I’m standing at the finish line – of the race and of childhood – waiting for you to emerge.

One of the things I say to you a lot is “run your own race.”  This is with reference to cross-country, of course, but far more often it’s about school and life and friendship.  You’re in middle school and the shifting social waters are tricky. You are learning lessons about identity and loyalty and who you want to be every single day.  Someday you will find your people, and all you need to do is to keep your eyes on the horizon and run your own race. Many, many of the people I love best found middle school challenging.  You don’t want to peak now! You are strong and brave and thoughtful and smart and I am so, so sure things will be fine.  They will be better than fine.

Sometimes your maturity astounds me.  Recently you took Snapchat off of your phone because you felt it was distracting you.  Your apologies are sincere and heartfelt. You remember to ask about meetings and doctor’s appointments and you care deeply about the chocolate lab down the street that you’ve been walking since she was a brand-new puppy.  Hand in hand with this maturity goes your sensitivity, which often overwhelms you.  Even last night, as I tucked you in, you told me that the night before was the best part of your birthday, because it was all still ahead. This sentiment is so familiar my eyes filled with tears. I hope I can help you learn to work with your strong feelings.  One thing to realize is what I wrote when you were ten, that when other people do things, it’s almost never about you.  The goal is to roll with things more.  Of course, I’m still struggling with this myself, so you come by it honestly.  Let’s learn together.

You are stardust, you are golden.  Sometimes I get the feeling you wish you could get back to the garden – to the security of childhood, to the days when I could make everything okay – but you and I both know you can’t. Onward.  To the garden that lies ahead, to the glitter on the horizon, to adventures big and small.  There is so much to look forward to, Gracie. Even when you can’t see me, I’m there, cheering.  I probably have tears in my eyes, and I will be rooting for you until the end of time.

I love you, Gracie.

Mum