Despite our worst fears, with a confusing mix of joy and relief we watched her hit each milestone in her own good time. And then she started school, and milestones became less of a celebration and more of a surgical removal of my heart.
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From school camps to her first school dance, with each step I felt her moving further into the world and further away from me. Because I am prone to melodrama, Iβm tempted to feel bereft. What do I do with this space: in my arms, in my days, in my life?
But then she calls me from school to tell me she got a hard-earned B-plus in maths, and I realise there will always be news to share, and I will always care deeply, so in this β and so much more β she will always need me.
This next chapter is full of unfamiliar firsts, not just for her, but for me, too. In the blink of an eye, we have gone from her first steps into my arms, to that first time leaving her at home by herself.
But with all endings, there are beginnings, and these new, grown-up milestones are more gain than loss β especially when I can go out for dinner without needing a babysitter.
Or, when she makes me laugh with her sharp observations, and I catch a glimpse of the confident, vibrant woman she is becoming. Or when I realise that our conversations have shifted, and Iβm learning as much as Iβm teaching. That the girl who once asked, βWhy is the sky blue?β now challenges my worldview and holds me accountable.
So now I sit in the passenger seat, trusting that sheβll be OK. Trusting that weβve done the work together, that Iβve taught her well, and that her future is hers to navigate. Iβm so proud of her.
And as I hold on β white-knuckle to the door handle and my emotions β I remember that this is just another milestone. And like all the others, weβll get through it, laughing, slightly hysterical and with one of us quietly riding the brake.
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