Oh God. Fuck fucking fuckity fuck. It happened. You’re in school now.
Right now, you are sitting at a tiny table, on a tiny chair, with other people’s tiny humans. Are you happy? Do you speak up and take part or is it all happening around you? If you get too warm will you get an arm stuck trying to take your jumper off? Do you know where the bathroom is? Can you open your juice? Do you miss me?
When I meet people I haven’t seen for a while and they ask what’s going on, I tell them about you, my baby. My baby did this, my wee toddler did the funniest thing. But you’re not a baby. Not anymore.
“I’m so proud of you. Of everything you do. ... I am constantly in awe of you and in awe that I can love someone this much.”
You have a uniform and a schedule and a classroom and a teacher that isn’t me, and I CAN’T BE HAVING IT! The thing is that it’s just you and me, always has been, and while I am so very proud that you wandered in happy and excited and didn’t cry or cling to me, a part of me needs you to need me. I know everyone always needs their mommy no matter what age they are, but I need you to rely solely on me for a wee while longer. Isn’t that selfish?
Because no one will know you like I do. I know when you have the answer but won’t speak up. I know what you mean when no one else can understand you. I know by looking at you across a room that you need a wee or you’re hungry or thirsty or upset. I’m sure your teacher is lovely, and I’m sure she wants only the best for you... but she won’t know, not like I do.
She won’t know that you didn’t say a solitary word until you were nearly two but knew your ABCs from flashcards we used to do in the bath. Or that you walked at 11 months. That you like every single Disney princess apart from Snow White because the queen scares you. That you sing when you think no one can hear you. That you wiggle your tiny wee bum when you get tired. That Neptune is your favorite planet. That you will let people push in front of you forever because you are gentle and kind in a way I can’t take credit for; it’s just who you are. She won’t know how sensitive you can be, how quiet, how clever. And it’s not a slight on her that she won’t know. She won’t know because you aren’t her baby.
I have watched you struggle to roll over and learn to walk. I have watched you sleep for varying amounts of time every night since you were born. I have worried in some form about you every second since you were born. I know every inch of you ― I grew every inch of you! I would know if a hair was missing. I could find you if they lined up every little girl in the world and all you got to see was a hand. I would know you.
And so I take that little hand and walk it across a car park, in a door and let it go. I don’t want you to cry. I want you to WANT to go. It’s a good thing. But God how I want to stay with you. Keep that little hand and guide you through your day. But instead that little hand waves at me, and you smile and I go. And I feel like my hands have never been more empty.
I give all the other parents a quick glance and see different versions of the same thing. Wringing hands, heads down, a few tears maybe. Busy parents headed to work, glancing back so much they nearly walk into each other. Stay-at-home parents loitering like teenagers at the gates ― all different, all the same.
You will never know the love I have for you. I could tell you all day every day and you still won’t know. I’m so proud of you. Of everything you do. It amazes me that you can walk and talk and open a fucking yogurt without me ― so my brain will probably explode when you write a sentence.
“It amazes me that you can walk and talk and open a fucking yogurt without me ― so my brain will probably explode when you write a sentence.”
Is it like this forever? Do parents look at their kids getting married or learning to drive and think, How?! I remember teaching you how to talk and now you want to be a lawyer!
I am constantly in awe of you and in awe that I can love someone this much. I literally want to strangle you sometimes, but I know I would get my hands near that chubby wee neck and end up covering you in kisses because you still have that baby roll under your chin, that soft baby skin. And when all signs of babyhood are gone and you are a young woman standing in front of me toe to toe, eye to eye, you will more than likely be shouting, and I will see those eyes, those eyes that I knew would be brown and came out the bluest blue that ever blued, and all I will see is the baby I made. I know you. I know all of you.
So go to school, make friends, and I’ll learn to be okay with you not needing me the same way. Get older and wiser, and I’ll watch from the side, ready with wipes and plasters and kisses. Know that you will be fine, that I’m waiting for you. Remember that I would walk through fire before I let you down, and know that I only want you to be careful with your uniform because I tucked my whole heart in there ― and I hate laundry.
My little girl, on her way. Taking her first real steps into her own life. I hope you love it. I hope you thrive and learn and laugh. Take care, I made you from scratch and you are perfect.
Love,
Mom
A version of this post originally appeared on Oh Mummy.
Before You Go
