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.
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