An Open Letter to Milly

So.  Here we are again.  For me - round 2.  For you - the brand new chapter.  I've been here before - and so this time things aren't quite as intense for me, quite as scary, quite as new.  Things are much more mundane, and wrote.  The drop offs, the pick ups, the classroom schedules, the staff, the homework, the folders, the lunches, the rules.  And I can't help but wonder as I'm working on getting both you and your sister out the door and off to your first days - if you're getting shortchanged?  I often feel this way about you.  Everything with your sister was a true FIRST.  It was new, and novel, and sometimes scary (even for mom and dad).  But with you, even when we want things to be special, we have another little person to consider who is off and going in another direction.  There is precious little chance to give you 100% of our full attention.

Of course with that comes some good things too.  Nothing probably seems quite as scary to you, because sister did it, and lived to tell the tale.  Nothing seems quite so lonely to you, because sister will be there ready to swoop in and help out.  And again I wonder:  does this help to make you who you are?  My little leader, my fearless one, my laid back kid who isn't really afraid of much?  Probably some.

But you are your own person.  In your own time and your own way.  You and your sister are very different people.  And so from that sense, I fear that of all the lessons I've learned, few will grant me wisdom to help you out.  In a way, the "new" will come to us both while looking through the lens of your constitution.

So, in keeping true to our family dynamic, the morning was a cacophony of "do you have ____" and "did you remember _____", and "what do you need for ______" hollered throughout the house.  When we finally got out the door we were a little more harried than the last time I made this fateful trip.  But, again, in keeping with our family, sister took you by the hand and told you "Don't worry Milly, I'll tell you where you need to go and I'll be waiting for you after school".  And in true Milly fashion, you bopped up the walk anxious to get to the next "new" thing - to make new friends, fall in love with your new teacher, learn new skills,

We arrived early enough that you and sister had to go to the gym instead of directly to your classrooms.  I worried that all the chaos within would break your slightly frayed nerves when I looked down at your face and saw that look - the one where you were smiling but with the corners of your mouth turned down ever so slightly - indication that the smallest thing could put you over the edge to tears.  I let sister walk you in, and then I waited.  After a few minutes I carefully peered into the gym and found you.  You gave me a smile and a wave. I blew you a kiss.  And that was that.  You were off and running with friends, both old and new.

This has been your way since the day you joined our little family.  Full speed ahead, no fear, laughing all the way.  I hope kindergarten lives up to your dreams. I hope that smile is on your face way more often than tears on your cheeks. I hope you get time to shine and feel special.  In a nutshell, I hope you continue to discover, develop, and display YOU.  Because by nature or nurture (or a healthy combination of both), you're wonderful.  Just like your sister before you.  But you're your own "you" - and I can't wait to watch you fly.

Love, Mom.

An Open Letter to Cora

I wrote this for Cora after her first day of Kindergarten on August 15th. I'm a bit late in posting it, and I've not read it to her.  It will be for her in later years to read and understand.  But here it is nonetheless.

My dearest, dearest little one,

Today you took a big step in the biggest adventure any of us will ever encounter: life.  Today was your first day of Kindergarten.  While we’ve had our share of firsts together before today (first day of day care, first day of pre-school, etc) today was somehow symbolic of something bigger.  Today, I didn’t just leave you in the care of others, hoping that they would teach you, guide you, and love you; but today I gave you over.  No longer are you in the relative protection of this mama bird’s wingspan.  Today, as I watched you walk up that new cement walkway, I gave you over to the world. 

We had no tears – neither you nor I.  And for that I was thankful. It was hard to hide my own nervousness – would she make friends, would she like her teacher, would I get a phone call halfway through the day – but it was what I knew needed to be done so that we could both take that walk with excitement in our steps.  Aside from the treat in your lunchbox, the note in your bag, the hug and kiss, the last gift I could leave you with was seeing a happy, proud, excited mom who just knew you were going to love this strange place – even if inside, mom wasn’t so sure. 

Your teacher asked that we not walk you to your classroom.  That instead we find a school helper and let them lead you the rest of the way.  I understood her point – this was to help prevent those last minute “oh my gosh this is real” tears and tantrums (from kids AND parents!) and so I respected her request.  But as the kindhearted blonde in the white and black dress took your little hand in the atrium and began to lead you down that long, long hallway I wondered if I’d done the right thing.  As your little figure got lost in the swarm of students, parents, and faculty I craned my neck for one last view.  And then you turned around. Just to see if mama was still there.  And I was.  As I always will be.  I will always be just behind you – supporting you, cheering you on, believing in you.  Even if you can’t see me.  But on that day I caught your eye just in time and gave you a huge grin and a big wave.  Then you were off again, and got swallowed up in the sea of kids off on their own adventures.

No matter what the next 13 years brings you – and even on beyond – my prayer for you is simple:  remember how very much you are loved, and how very much you are worth.  If you grow up knowing those two things I have done my job and will be happy.  You are my sweet, kind, gentle, sensitive, deep-feeling, curious, smart, darling.  And while those traits will serve you well and endear you to others, they can be hard to live.  Your feelings will be hurt a little more easily.  Your pride will be bruised more readily.  Your self-esteem will be chipped away over things most children would never notice.  And I worry for you over that.  But I would not trade your nature for anything.  Because it will make you into a wonderful woman who has a heart to share with the world and gifts that only God knows the limits of.  And today was the first step on the way to getting the tools you need to share that gift in the best possible way – whatever that may be.  And I hope you share it with alacrity.  I am so proud of you.

I love you Cora Claire.