Twenty-Two
Dearest Lauren -
This has been a pretty intense period in your ever-unfolding life — finishing university, settling into your new job in provincial politics, adjusting to who's in your life and who isn't.
AND this is the first morning that we’ve not been in the same city on the morning of your birthday.
I am sure I had made up endless stories about how I would me feeling on the occasion of this particular first. But happily, it’s surprisingly calming to know that you are exactly where you need to be, where your heart is holding court.
Who knew?
(Every other parent who has navigated this particular transition, I’m guessing.)
But I thought to write this year’s letter not with a first, but with a last.
A last that happened just two weeks ago.
(Now, do I know for a fact that it’s a last? No. Nothing is certain…and let that be life lesson #6831 for you. But let’s just say the odds are good that it will be the last.)
The Last Sick Day from School
It was the day after I had just sent a particularly tough rewrite to my literary agent. This one took a lot out of me and frankly, this whole process has been far more excorating than I had imagined. So I was a little spent and distracted.
But you had been in Ottawa over the weekend. And your body was exhausted from the travel, late nights and working as hard as you have been with finishing out your final papers of your undergrad uni career AND going over-and-above at your part-time comms job given the wild political antics in our province
Your sweet body has always responded to over-extension by getting pretty serious about the fever and chills to let you know that you have no choice but to slow it way down and rest
Something about the convergence of you feeling sick and me feeling like I needed some time away from working, I gave myself over to taking a little extra care for you. And somewhere in between tucking you in and making sure the heating pad was working and steeping another cup of hot water infused with honey, ginger and lemon, I realized that this was it
Of all the days I've imagined: first day of kindergarten, then the last days of grade school, middle school, high school, the first day of university, dorm move in (and the silent drive home), and all the days I dare not dream about, I did not see this one coming.
Last sick day home from school.
A relatively innocuous moment I just never thought to anticipate.
As you snoozed away, I decided to pull out the “just between us” journal that we used for a very brief moment when you were around eight.
It opened to a page with a drawing I did of you, from a day in middle school. Perhaps I drew it knowing there would be a moment a decade or two or three out that I would want to remember what these fleeting and numbered days were about. It reads: “A drawing of my baby on Jan 23/13. We're having a "heart" day. Very cold and we wanted some sweetness...we're having it.”
A note fell out of it as I picked it up to look closer.
That note reads: “May 17, 2020 Cleaning out L's room and we came across this [journal]. I said “it's too bad we never really used this" as there were very few entries. L, very matter of factly said: I think it's because we never really needed it. We did really good job of just talking to each other. We were good at expressing ourselves to each other.” She's right. WIN.”
WIN, indeed.
I share this because it underscores two things that matter fiercely to me.
You cannot know how deeply I hope that our connection continues to span time and space as a RESULT of our clear and truthful communication. I suspect we’re pretty well set up for that. I am infinitely grateful.
One of the things I'm proudest of in my role as your mother is helping you to listen and care for your mental and physical health. Maybe not in the eat fibre, work out and take vitamins way, but certainly in the listen to your body and take its cues seriously. You know how to attend to yourself. You know how to rest (mostly) without guilt. May you take that with you always.
So yeah, I had a moment when I realized that the tuck-ins, like everything else, were finite.
And so, just like everything else, a reminder to cherish all I can with as much presence as I can hold.
Listening to the political podcasts that bore me to tears but have you captivated as you get ready in the morning from the other room.
The ‘fit checks’ that demonstrate your evolving style.
Watching you bound out the door with purpose AND lightness only to be stopped by a neighbourhood cat or dog who needs a skritch. You ALWAYS stop and deliver.
Witnessing the way everyone comes alive in your presence…babies, people you hold doors open for at the store, nail technicians, people you work with who happen to be leading governments that we bump into on flights, baristas...everyone.
You’re graduating in just a couple of weeks. You’ve grown and learned and navigated stress and competing priorities and bureacracies and scheduling and learning to ask for help and grace when needed and to dig in where required. And in return, you’ve found yourself rich in relationships, creative pursuits like your college newspaper and sitting on the dean’s list every year. Surpassing any academic feat your father or I even considered for ourselves.
I’m a touch breathless as I write this. Just as I was when I wrote you when you turned eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty and twenty-one.
Truthfully, I have no idea where you’ll be this time next year. Traveling? Living at home? In your own place? In another city closer to the federal action?
We are at that precipice point of the great and very exciting unknowns.
As much as I appreciate that you listen to your father and me, it’s even more important that you listen to yourself. And you do and you are…because you know how to take care of yourself in the ways that matter the most.
We couldn’t possibly be prouder of you than we are right now.
I just hope you feel proud of yourself too.
You are so ready.
But first, we are off to pick you up from the airport, and we’ll eat cupcakes and sip prosecco and listen to the stories of your adventures, and bask in the light that you are.
Gratefully. Ever gratefully.
x/Mama
