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 |   Reflections and ruminations from a modern day Alice - Life is Wonderland |
| Tonight there is a girl down the hall, painstakingly braiding her hair in anticipation of her first day of high school. The house is so quiet, it seems as if her intense concentration is holding all of us in a suspended state of animation. I am furiously jotting words onto paper, the scritchity-scratch of my pen is almost offensively loud. Its all I can think to do, transcribe everything I am feeling, my ink therapy on full display. I'm feeling restless and un-moored. My daughter is just hours away from taking the next big step, embarking on the most significant four years in her life. I believe we must be filled with the same angst and excitement in equal measure. Monday night, during an orientation that ran too long, I watched her bouncing her leg with manic energy. Her toe tapped a staccato beat on the auditorium floor that seemed timed to the march of questions in my head; Have I told her enough about how all this counts? ....Will she be able to make good friends? Will she put herself out there enough? Will she tell us if she needs help? How is our little girl in high school already? Where did all the years go? Where did all the time go? The last question hurts the delicate place in my heart that belongs only to her. A place created when her heartbeat first reverberated through my body like something cosmic and divine, forever altering my universe. I am consumed by the urge to go to her with more reassurances and advice, suddenly convinced that I haven't prepared her well enough for this step. She's sitting in front of her mirror, the low rumble of music coming from her phone. Her clothes are laid out for the morning, her volleyball gear and backpack and water bottle, all set and ready. She turns those green eyes to me, but all my words won't come as easily as they flowed for me before. They fail me now, balling up inside me and squeezing the air from my lungs. I sit down across from her and just watch for her for a few moments. My daughter looks composed, contentedly going through her evening routine. I marvel that she has grown into a confident, beautiful young woman right in front of my eyes. I realize that tomorrow may be harder for me than it will be for her. She's ready. She's got this. I know she does. And if she ever doesn't, I know she will tell me. There will be plenty of time for advice and reassurances over these next four years. For now, I take my thoughts to bed with me where they become the prayers all mothers say for their daughters. |
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