Four and So Much More

Another Trip around the Sun

Every year, without fail, when it is my child’s birthday I find myself awash in emotions. The past years flood back into my memory and I am astounded at how a human can grow and change in just a year. But not just a year, in multiple years.

How much can a human change in four years?
They can complete high school or college. They enter an institution bright-eyed, naive, and emerge ready to tackle the next challenge.
But in four years, I find myself breathless that she was once a baby that could barely hold up her head. Her only communication was cries that rocked me to my core. Now, she is a small human who is running, walking, talking, shouting, singing, counting, coloring, drawing... and every other gerund possibly imaginable.

“I’m not a baby anymore,” she said to me yesterday when I tried to help her out of the car. But then she put her small hand in mine and pulled me forward.
It is on a day like this when I pause and reflect on how she will forever be the amalgam of bittersweet memories of the past and a joyful vibrant present as we both await with a mixture of hope, trepidation, and optimism to see what will unfold in the future.

In just the past year, we’ve all experienced a profound loss. The loss of a beloved surrogate family member and friend, the loss of a life that seems like a fading memory with each passing day.
As the world lurches forward and we all, as humans, face even more grief and sorrow to come, I’m grateful for the glimpses of the day where her world is still bright and shiny, a tiny seedling encased in a shell that will protect her temporarily for the obstacles and heartache ahead.
While the small moments and stories of these days will be filed away in the recesses of her mind one day, perhaps inaccessible as an adult, I will carry them for her.
As a pandemic rages and the wildfires burn with the air is riddled with ash, my heart clenches because I don’t know what will be left for her.

The only thing I can do, and promise her is that I will fight however I can.
I fight for that future where the oceans and skies remain blue and that the birds and animals still fly and roam.As I watch the passage of time with every inch she grows, I pray that I have the ability to continue to sharpen her mind and open her heart.
Just for today, I will cry happy tears at the past moments and present moments when we snuggle together in bed. I’ll breathe her in when she crawls into my lap, her head pressed against my cheek as we read and explore books together.

Because those moments, as with the days, are here and gone again.
I’ll hold her tight as she navigates the large waves of emotion that flood her mind, even if it’s over something that most (grown) people would find trite or silly. Because in her small seedling world, even the smallest ripples grow to become big waves.

And I am so grateful for this period of innocence where we will sit in these waves together, until she learns to steer your own ship.

While she is no longer small enough for me to carry in my arms, I will carry her as far as I can, as long as I can. I will stand back and let her take flight and take her own risks, even though I’ll be incredibly stressed out whenever she does take a tumble. And I’ll be fighting that inner mom warrior instinct to jump in and burn down anything that could cause her harm.

I remind myself how resilient she already is when she stumbles and falls and bounces right back up, cheerily saying, “That didn’t hurt!”
She is strong. She is brave, because she always tries.
That’s all we can ever do.
She is my entire heart.

I pray for teachers that guide her with patience and love, friends that encourage her to be a better person every day, and perhaps one day should she choose, a worthy partner that fills her with abundant love.
While I know that there will be the inevitable day where she breaks away to step forward into her own light and path, I can be at peace knowing she’ll forever have my love with her.