Nora Jane,
You are now nine years-old. Nine, if you’re not aware, is a bonkers age. (For me, mainly. I’m sure you’re perfectly fine with it.)
I remember nine.
I remember arranging my prized collection of porcelain dolls by height and dress and general interest- you know, the collection you inherited and now arrange by height and dress and general interest? I remember watching ‘Quantum Leap’ (a wholly brand-new show) with your Pop and how both of us agreed it was a game-changer.
(I remember later meeting Scott Bakula when I was 9 weeks pregnant with you, and weeping from joy and disbelief and more than a little morning sickness.)
So if I remember things about age nine with such crystal clarity, how on earth can I possibly have a nine-year old? Time is a flat-out punk.
I remember being so scared the night before I had you.
You know how I tell you it’s perfectly a-ok to be scared, as long as it doesn’t stop you from doing things you want to (or have to) do? This was one of those moments.
I wanted you so very, very much. (And, at that point in the pregnancy, I pretty much had to have you.)
I remember being afraid that I wouldn’t know how to have a baby. I was afraid that I wouldn’t know how to be a mother. I was also afraid that everything would change, like forever.
Turns out, a big ol’ team of doctors helped me have a baby- you, in fact. I took to being a mother- yours, in fact- like a feather takes to the air. And, you know what? Everything did change.
I remember being so grateful for that. So, I stopped being afraid of You As Baby and decided to actually enjoy it. (And we had a really good time, Bitsy Ladybug.)
I remember taking you to a preschool open house.
…And standing by a wooden boat and a teensy tiny book nook, and shaking. Actually shaking. Not with fear so much this time, but more with the out-of-body weirdness of- I’m sorry- who’s going to preschool?
And then I remember being so proud of you when you adored school. And grateful for your teachers and your new best friends and the unwavering knowledge that you’d always have that serious furrowed brow- the one I couldn’t imagine spending my mornings without. So, I stopped being afraid of You As Preschooler and decided to actually revel in it. (Girl, we reveled. Like, Wild Rumpus Level revel.)
A few short (and I do mean short) years later…
We squeezed each others’ hands as we toured your new elementary school. I remember feeling my head pop clear off of my shoulders with disbelief, thinking “People just do this? Just, like, send their kids off for the whole day? Like no one’s even going to care that afternoon pillow forts have ceased to be? Shenanigans. I remember being afraid of losing my identity as the most important person in your world. (And sad. I remember being really sad.)
And then I remember being thrilled for you, because within that hour you were squeezing a new hand- that of your very first-ever bestie, a gal who has since been in four homerooms with you and, understandably, has become increasingly important in your world.
Meaning I did a good job.
Meaning you did a good job.
So, I stopped being afraid of You (Semi) Out in the World and decided to actually own it. (And we invented things like Book Bed and spent afterschool hours doing puzzles and writing short stories side by side on the couch.)
I may not remember my own middle name most days.
That said, I’ll always have mental snapshots of all the times Tiny You morphed into Less Tiny You. And I can’t promise not to be afraid when we’re teetering on the precipice of a new age or stage or milestone.
Some of us, after all, are meant to dip a toe into the waters, spend way too long “getting used to” it, and then realize it’s actually a pretty nice temp after all.
You know what I mean. I know you know what I mean. I grew your brain, after all.
But I’m going to try really, really hard and remember to enjoy each change.
You have a pretty great track record of blowing my mind and bursting my heart with each passing year, so I think we’ll always be okay. Especially now, because you’re nine. And, as everyone knows, ‘nine’ is one of those ages where anything and everything is possible, and you get to be both Big Kid and little, and things are good. Really good.
Oh, I remember.
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