Almost 3 years ago, one of my dearest friends died.

I was in the trudges of two under two. There was snot on every thing and tears from someone all the time. There were two sets of eyes who didn’t allow me to lay in the bed and feel the grief that I should have felt. At the time, I was thankful for it. I was towing a line between tired mom and Mom drinking a bottle of chocolate syrup. I couldn’t feel every emotion I probably wanted to feel. I had babies to nurse and toddlers to potty train and somebody touching me every second. 

Suppress. Suppress. Suppress. 

I was sad and teared up at the occasional Backstreet Boys song, random memory, or picture she took of Ella. But that deep, ugly grief never came to light. 

Suppress. Suppress. Suppress. 

One thing Tracy Lawrence taught me is that Time Marches On. And it did. Eventually, the Backstreet Boys brought smiles. The pictures of Ella became treasures instead of jabs. The random memories were gifts. Some of them I swear I didn’t remember doing until it came to me like something out of “That’s So Raven.” The babies that made me so crazy became kids and went off to school without my permission.  

The sign that has hung on the back of my door for the past 8 years is a sign she made. It says “Lights Will Guide You Home.” It was one of many incredible lines from “Fix You,” via Coldplay. It was a song I dreaded hearing when I saw them in concert a couple of years ago, because it felt like such an unfair irony that the great loss that I associate the song with is the same loss that wrote the lyrics to the song on a chalkboard for my door. Even as the chalk begins to fade, I can’t take it down. Taking it down feels like an acceptance of the loss and I don’t know that I’m ready for that. 

If you haven’t noticed, I’ve hit my max on suppressing. There are things around me changing and as anyone knows, change involves a lot of feelings. For the last week or so, I’ve felt an unexplainable grief toward the loss of my friend. The kind of grief you feel deep in your chest, making you feel the need to sob uncontrollably while simultaneously making it feel hard to breathe. I don’t know what the trigger was for Alyssa specifically. One minute I was dicing carrots and the next I was in my husband’s arms gasping for breaths  between sobs. It was a deep sadness. A thorough hurt. A sorrow like I hadn’t felt since the day I heard the news. Somewhere in there, there was anger that all of this was coming to the surface. I had just recovered from first time Kindergarten mom syndrome. I have cried more in the last two weeks than I’ve cried in the 28 years that I’ve been alive. 

On one hand, it’s been such a relief to know that she made such an impact on my life that it’s taken me three years (so far) to move on. I’ve missed her presence so deeply in my life over the past few months. I’ve missed the laugh that I swear I still hear in restaurants sometimes. My head jerks in the general direction of the noise before I realize that it can’t be Alyssa’s laugh, but what a gift to hear a similar one. I miss dreaming together. I miss how easy it was to be her friend.

It’s been a rattling few days. I don’t even know that I have a true purpose for writing, other than acknowledging that it’s an outlet for my grief. Maybe to let you know that grief doesn’t have a time capsule. Maybe you grieve for a week, maybe you grieve for ten years. It’s whatever works for you. My heart graced me with getting out of the diaper phase of my life before the reality of what losing Alyssa really looked like for me settled in. Missing her lately has hurt so badly, but felt so freeing. Not because I feel like I can let her go, but because I still feel her period. Not in a “talk to ghosts, please seek medical attention immediately, Izzie Stevens” way. Not in a “I feel Alyssa here.” No. That’s weird. In a way that every time I pick up my camera, she comes to mind. All of the things we learned together over the years. In a way that sometimes when my daughter’s eyes light up, I think of the way Alyssa looked on the day she found out I was pregnant. In the way that sometimes I drive by a car that looked like hers and still get excited that it might be her before I realize how impossible it is.

I’m in a continual cycle of disbelief that this is even a part of my life and thankfulness for the time I had with her. I don’t allow myself to think about what life would look like if she were here, because it’s unfair to a slew of people, but man do I wish she was. I wish that she could hear how much Ella talks, or sing “The Sound of Music” with Adam. I wish that she could help me figure out my complicated living room and find a way to make it feel homey. I wish that she could pull me off of the couch and into better shape. I wish that I could sit with her and talk about all of the hard stuff and the changes that accompany raising kids. I wish that I could laugh with her at the expense of others. I wish for so many things. But mostly I just wish she was here and that I didn’t have to feel the weight of her loss. 

As my friend Idina says, she’s like a handprint on my heart. I hate that it still stings so badly. Sometimes I feel like a crazy person that it still hurts so much. Sometimes I’m annoyed to know that she probably doesn’t think about me at all. Most of the time, I just miss her. For some reason over the past few days, unbearably so. I know this part will pass. Hopefully sooner than later, because my eyes burn and my nose is full of snot. 

I don’t think there’s really a bright and shiny end for this blog. I keep thinking I’ll get to one eventually, but I just rabbit trail back into the same feelings and pondering if something is wrong with my temporal lobe for sending into this whirlwind of feelings over something I felt largely recovered from. But I think mostly that it’s human nature to long for comfort. And she was comfort for me. When my heart was overwhelmed with everything from negative pregnancy tests to a screaming toddler carrying around my positive pregnancy tests while I stared in disbelief. She was the safe place. I don’t visit her grave. I know there’s no real healing there for me. I would only be there to acknowledge what I have lost. Temporarily lost. Only for now, in this lifetime. 

“Who can say if I’ve been changed for the better? I do believe I have been changed for the better. Because I knew you... because I knew you, I have been changed for good.

Kindergarten.

Today is one of those days that you dread and hope for.

We dropped Ella off at her first day of Kindergarten today.

And I experienced every emotion that you could chalk up a cliche first time Mom to feel.

Excitement for her, sadness for me, awareness of how beautiful and innocent she is, amazement at the things she learned under my watch, devastation at mourning the end of her "baby years," regret at all of the times I shooed her away while I was playing with my phone, relief that she's going into Kindergarten prepared, fear that her teacher won't understand her "ticks" and she won't show her grace. All of the things. All of the feelings. I cried more today than I've cried in the 1,860 days that I've been her Mom.

Five years ago, a tiny little girl with a head full of hair was placed into my arms. She was wide awake, and never slept longer than about an hour at a time. Even as a newborn, I could see the wheels in her head turning. When she was supposed to be crosseyed and a big dull dud, I could see the sparkle in her eyes. Her eyebrows were always pressed together, lost in thought. She was continually trying to learn. It's a trait that's carried through every hour of the past 1800 days or so. For the first two years of her life, we had the hardest time getting her to talk at all. She signed or pointed at anything she wanted, and when we couldn't comprehend, she sighed and tried to do it herself.

I carried her through animals, then colors, followed in tandem with letters and numbers, soon after we found ourselves learning the 50 states, then a violent fail at Presidents. All of the presidents were George Washington. "What's that mean?" "What is it?" "Why does it do that?" essentially became the first real sentences she learned. I missed the days that I begged her to talk. We learned early on that her memory was a force to be reckoned with, followed closely by an incessant need for routine. How I, the Queen of winging it, landed a Type A personality to raise is beyond me. I feel like the Lord uses our children to teach us, but that's a lesson I haven't learned yet. I was so thankful to have the opportunity to place her at MDO at Stonegate, because if nothing else, surely socialization would encourage her to be a child instead of a mini-adult with a love for learning. I don't know that she ever fully let herself go at MDO, but we did have 3 wonderful years of a program that taught her how to be in a classroom, and gave my blood pressure a break from the incessant questions.

All of her life, I've wondered if she was a Belle or a Matilda. A Matilda in the way that she's quiet, but mighty. Sure, she never shuts up at home, but you'll be hard pressed to get much of a conversation out of her in public unless your name is Erin. She's continually thinking. Even when you're trying to teach her something and asking her to pay attention. She's a quiet force, a vigilant seeker of justice, and will completely lose herself in a book. Except "Elephant & Piggie" books, which she feels should be read out loud at the top of her lungs, to the demise of everyone around her. But I also see so much of Belle. If you're wondering if I'm about to whip out a Disney lyric, you'd be right.

"I want adventure in the great wide, somewhere. I want it more than I can tell. And for once, it might be grand, to have someone understand... I want so much more than they've got planned."

I see her heart long for adventure. I see the wonder in her eyes when we explore new places. I see passion in the things that stir her affections. I see resolute in her beliefs, even now... even when she's wrong. I see a soul not made for here. And before you roll your eyes at me, I am aware that she is 5.

I've discussed previously that I'm a big believer in names with meaning. Ella means "Light" or "Beautiful Fairy." Clearly, I attached to light. And I swear, she lights up a room. I don't even think it's because I'm her mom and biased. I think she honestly comes into the room, and the atmosphere changes. Morgan means "Dwells by the Sea" and I truly don't know that I've ever seen a child more drawn to the water. Something about her comes alive when she's near water in any form. So maybe I'm crazy, and it's a fault of mine for thinking so far ahead in the future, but I can't help but see Kindergarten as the beginning of learning to let her go.

I wish I could convey how proud I am to be her Mom. To know that I'm raising a quiet little warrior. To raise this little light, who is nothing short of a force. To recognize and encourage this untapped potential and love for adventure. To be okay with letting her come out of her shell at her own pace. To hope that I'm not picking her up from jail in 15 years for protesting the destruction of a historic building. I wouldn't be surprised at all to find her living in a teeny apartment in some coastal city in twenty years. It wouldn't be shocking to hear her say she's going on a road trip and doesn't have a plan. I see all of those wonderful, brave traits in her. And to know that I'm the mom she'll come home to makes my heart so full that I want to buy her her first camera tomorrow to capture all of her adventures. She's magic. Magic is my favorite word to describe her.

So yesterday, I've mourned the baby years. I've mourned being in charge of what her eyes see and what her ears hear. I've wept at the the way her head rests on my shoulder while we read Roald Dahl. I've memorized every bit how tiny she looks with her big girl backpack on. I've listened with a new intensity at the way she says "I love you, Mama." I've studied her eyelashes and her tan skin. I listened to the excitement in her voice when Cody came home for lunch. I looked for ways to make her giggle, just to hear the laugh that hasn't changed since she was 4 months old. I soaked every second of her up today. I cried in front of her and let her know that she has been the greatest work of my life. Every picture I've taken, every song that I've sung, every word I ever wrote pales in comparison to the joy and the pride I've experienced being her Mama. She looked at me like I was insane and stuck her tongue out at me trying to make me laugh. But I know that if I continue to let her know that she's the magic that inspired me to find my own adventure again, she'll feel brave enough to pursue anything she wants to vigorously and without being afraid to fail.

I am certain that after tomorrow, this will be our new normal. I won't cry when I leave the classroom. I won't see her baby dolls lined up on her bed and sob. I'll probably even look forward to Mondays every now and then. But today and tomorrow, I'm allowing myself to feel the hurts. I'm letting my heart feel anything it wants to. I'm writing to sort through all of the thoughts that keep bringing these tears to my eyes, and then I'm going to buck up and learn to let her go. I'll be thankful for every second that I got to spend with her in these years that matter so much.

To all of you Mama's with newborns, just trying to make it to the next feeding, I know Kindergarten feels far away. I know five years feels like a welcome wait and a time that will never creep up on you. But my word. Time. It can be such a wonderful friend. For every day that felt so long, and I felt so tired, it allowed me to feel validated. But time can be such a foe too. It sneaks up in-between their first steps and potty training. One day you look at them and you don't even know what happened but they're practically grown and need you less and less. But I'm not going to tell you to soak up every second of it. You don't need that unnecessary guilt. There were days that I laid in my bed and cried, because a piece of raising this little warrior meant incessant temper tantrums, and OCD tendencies, and a refusal to budge from routine. That's without factoring in continual ear infections and a little brother. Those hard days were HARD days, and I swore sometimes I would never make it. She is magic, but she is hard. And I know that in the middle of all of that hard, somebody telling me I wasn't taking advantage of my time with her made me feel like less of a Mom. So you hold them if you want to. You tell them that they're the best thing that ever happened to you if you want to. OR you put them in their carseat, buckle them in, and take a shower by yourself, knowing that they can't go anywhere. They might cry... that's okay too. You're both going to make it. You're going to wake up one August and realize that tomorrow starts the next phase of her life. Maybe you'll want to go back to the carseat days, maybe you'll find yourself excited to teach her about having the qualities of the March sisters (except Amy, ew) and watching little pieces of yourself shine through her. Maybe you'll land somewhere in between the two, like me. Regardless... you're going to feel so proud to be a part of her story, and probably so thankful that Jesus let you have her for a little while. And that's the magic of it all. You can let her go without fear, because she doesn't really belong to you anyway. She's firm in the palm of His hand, and something about that will bring you peace. But no one is going to judge you for crying in Starbucks because you only ordered one cake pop instead of two. They might even give one to you for free to give her after school.

Today, your heart might be devastated, but tomorrow, you get to go an entire day without watching Peppa Pig. And that, dear friend, is magic all its own.