The mothering was easy on a January afternoon when I first heard her heartbeat. Life was all stretched out in front of her and I fell in love as she dipped and swam in her prenatal ocean. I longed to meet her.
She came in the warm of summer and those wide eyes looked at mine and wondered at the bright, noisy world. I relished the early days when the whole of her fit between my hand and the crook of my arm, so tiny. Then she grew, but still she needed to be close, all cuddled up.
Now when I look at her, eyes meet easily. No more bending low to enter her sphere. She is a young woman. And I must send her forward.
We parents are invited to write letters as our children enter high school. What do I say at the beginning of the end? The mission of these years is to move her on, to move her away from us. Script on a page cannot express the overflow of my heart as I send her to this new and unknown place. The language of letting go is not my native tongue.
The sand slips through the glass and I imagine that the demands of time, the growing older, even the saying good-bye–-these are not the ways of Eden. At creation’s dawn, time was not a commodity. All was kairos. All was good.
There are still four years–-years that will fly, then she will fly. But she will always be at home here in my heart. This is the way of a mother.
by Julie Ruegsegger @ tracing grace