My dearest Ava,
Every night before bed, I lie with you, and you beg me to recount stories from my childhood. As I lie in the dark with you and cast my mind back to places and people long forgotten, I feel my heart breaking just a little bit. It’s breaking because my own childhood slipped by so quickly, and I know yours will, too. I feel this more acutely than ever, now that you are almost five. I feel frantic to hold each day, each hour, each moment with you just a little longer.
The other day, you and I were walking together, hand in hand, on a beautiful spring day. The sun was shining on your hair, and your brown eyes looked so dark and clear and lovely. You were skipping along next to me talking about wolves and foxes (two animals that fascinate you), and my heart was so full and so empty at the same time because all I could think was, “I want this moment, right here, to last forever. And it won’t. It’s already passing into the next moment. And the next. And before I know it, my little girl will be her own woman, out in the world and lost to me in this way, this exact way, forever.”
I know that it’s my job, as your mama, to prepare you to live in this world–to endure its hurts and savor its beauty, to find your own way and become your own person–but sometimes I think this duty is too much for me to bear. How can I send you out alone, when every fiber of my being wants to keep you with me always?
Recently, you’ve developed a fascination with one of the neighbor boys across the street. He’s older, and he has a pack of wild, rowdy brothers who follow him everywhere. When they come over to “play” with you, I watch from the porch, and I see how desperately you want to be seen by them. You call Shaun’s name over and over, begging him to look as you make silly faces and do “funny tricks,” such as slapping yourself in the forehead. He barely acknowledges you because he is nine. And a boy.
Your face is so very open with hope and need–the need for them to notice you, to laugh with you–that it’s like a punch to my gut. I want to rush out and protect you, my sweet, vulnerable, little girl. I want to shelter you from a lifetime of small and large rejections like this. I never want you to feel pain or loneliness. I want you to always feel special and beautiful. But I know that you won’t. That you can’t. That you must experience these things in order to grow into a woman and become strong.
This morning, you dressed yourself in one of your “pretty skirts” and brushed your own hair (with four different hairbrushes). You were so proud to have done all of this by yourself, and you ran downstairs for some “high heels” from your dress-up basket. You slipped them on and stood in front of my mirror, your hair in a ponytail and your tiny feet pushed forward in the too-large shoes. You said to me, “Am I pretty, Mama?” Suddenly, dizzyingly, time tumbled headlong, and you were a teenager standing in my room, getting ready to leave me behind.
I wanted to sit you down and tell you, “You are beautiful because of who you are, inside and out. You are beautiful, no matter what you wear or how you do your hair. You are beautiful, and you are worth everything, so don’t give yourself away too easily or compromise yourself. Don’t ever let anyone make you feel small or sad. You are powerful. You are everything in the world that is lovely and true and strong. You are grace. And you are my entire heart–my entire being.”
I feel you slipping, just a little bit, each day. And I know I must let you go. But I want you to know that you will never be alone. I will be with you always, even when you are by yourself.
Love,
Your Mama