Holding On

Dear RE,     

Today I waited for you after school like I always do. I sat in the car, checked facebook, and peeled an orange until I heard the bell. I could spot your colt legs and backpack crossing the street a mile away. You gave the crossing guard her usual compliments and then the skipping began. You skipped the entire way to the car and once you saw me you waved and jumped up and down. This generally makes my heart burst. Please always be like this. You are like a bounding cartoon character that leaves flowers in her wake.

We decided to ignore the clouds and wind and walk to gymnastics today. It took us 22 minutes to get there and you held my hand the entire time. We passed a dead white rabbit in the ditch. The bunny kind of looked like Max when he died and it made us both sad. We smelled juniper, a few early cookouts, wind, dust, dampness, and that swelling that means spring is coming. You chattered the entire walk. After I dropped you off I pretended to go ride the stationary bike but really I watched you through the window.

When did your legs get so long? When did you start worshipping teenagers? When did you learn to vault? Only yesterday I was watching you through the Nursery window, the Kindergarten window, and now the Level 3 gymnastics window? Soon you will be spending your kid money on imported junk from Claire's and frozen yogurt. (That's what I spent my money on.) It's going too fast. Somewhere between your Disney Princess trike and multiplying fractions you have almost grown up. Almost.

I am trying to BE HERE NOW. Sometimes our days pass with mundane monotony:

homework.dishes.shower.folding laundry.setting the table.walmart.

I am sorry that my mom brain is full of lists: things to fix, to buy, to make, to read, to cook, to try, to achieve, to become. I need to slow down and hold your little, calloused hand more often. More walks to gymnastics. More bike adventures. More shortbread cookies from Dough Boys. More reading my old diaries together. More painting rocks.

Last night you wrote a contract of things you promise to do. Your 10th item was "I promise to love my parents forever." I am keeping that index card. Who knows what age 14 will bring? I'm crossing my fingers you never hit the phase of "My mother is the stupidest person on earth." If you hold my hand every day and want a bedtime snuggle every night then you won't ever change, right? I will still be reading stories to you until the night before your marriage, right? Until then I guess I'll keep holding on.

Love, Mom

Unfold

 It's time.