I’m not ready for this part to end.
I’m not ready for my front door to open and know that my girl won’t walk through it. Not as often. Not until November. (And how many more of those?)
I’m not ready to walk past her bedroom and see it empty. And clean.
I’m not ready for her chair to sit empty at dinner. I’m not ready for good nights and good mornings over text. (Fingers crossed.) I’m not ready to check the calendar on my fridge — the one from the college, the one we picked up at that nice alumni event, the one that I love and cherish and also, if I’m honest, hate with my whole entire heart — to determine when I get to hug her again.
I’m not ready to stop checking if she needs anything at Trader Joe’s. I’m not ready to stop checking what time she’ll be home. I’m not ready to stop checking if she has time to get our nails done.
I’m not ready to see less of her. I have always, since she was a baby who burst onto the scene and blew my heart wide open and taught me what it feels like to truly, unconditionally love a person so much it aches, wanted more of her.
Even the newborn weeks. Even the toddler years. Even the teenage years. Especially the teenage years.
I’m not ready for the college years. Not quite.
I want to keep staying up past my bedtime, reading on the couch (who are we kidding, sleeping on the couch), waiting to hear the front door unlatch, waiting to see her walk in from work, from a friend’s house, from a football game, from a basketball game, from a concert, from prom, from a party, from a trip she went on without me, from anywhere she just made a memory or made a friend or made a mistake or made a discovery and I can’t wait to hear every delicious detail or, barring that, “Night. I’m tired.”
I want to keep tripping over her shoes. I want to keep washing an endless supply of her water bottles with very specific straws. I want to keep finding half empty La Croix cans everywhere. I want the extra laundry. I want the extra groceries. I want more time.
This feels like the beginning of less time.
I’ve said goodbye to things. Things that were better than I ever expected and harder than I ever expected and more transformative than I ever expected. Jobs. Homes. Friendships. Marriages.
Saying goodbye to a childhood is different.
I look at her face and I see a baby who wouldn’t nap and a 3-year-old who loved to make messipes (recipes, but messy) and a 5-year-old who loved to jump off things and a 10-year-old who loved gymnastics and a 16-year-old who loved cheer and a kid who at, every age, loved her brother and loved to laugh and loved a challenge.
And always I got to hold her hand and help her through all those ages. And always she got to hold my hand and help me through all those ages.
And now I have to let go.
Our family friend Hali asked my daughter over dinner recently if she was excited for college. Yes, she said, but also sad about all the goodbyes.
“You’re leaving the party while it’s still fun,” Hali said.
This party is still fun.
But if you stay much longer, Hali added, you’ll get bored. Everyone else will start leaving. The next party will be even better.
She’s right. The next party will be even better.
So I’ll learn.
I’ll learn to be ready for this part to end. I’ll learn to love good nights and good mornings over text, as often as I can get them. I’ll learn to savor the Novembers when she still walks through my front door. I’ll learn to appreciate that she’s making memories and making friends and making mistakes and making discoveries and I don’t need every detail. I don’t deserve every detail. They’re her details now. (They were always her details. I know this. I’m always re-learning this.)
I’ll learn to lean more on the gratitude that’s always present, that’s always taking up plenty of space in my heart. I’ll learn to lean less on the longing.
I’ll learn stuff I can’t even picture yet — how much I adore her roommate, maybe. How fun it is to attend parents’ weekend. How to enjoy getting my nails done alone. How her face lights up when she sees her brother after months away. How big her world can get.
That’s what we do, right? When this part ends and we send our kids to college or the military or trade school or backpacking across Europe or to a job one town over or wherever they’re going next?
We learn that the luckiest thing in our entire lives, the chance to love and raise and witness another human, is an ever-evolving, ever-expanding, ever-bewildering experiment in how much a heart can hold.
Lucky us. Lucky me.