How did this happen, I ask myself. How did eighteen years fly by like it was nothing at all? Like time wasn't anything but a whisper in the wind. All those tuck-ins and re-tuck-ins and "Mom! I need you to tuck me in again." Where did they go? Did I even realize I was tucking her in for the last time when it was happening. No. I know this answer, because if I knew it was the last time I wouldn't have forgotten when it was.
My baby girl is 18.
I remember everything about my pregnancy; down to the details of the apartment her father and I shared as we patiently waited on her arrival. I remember every single moment of her birth and have recounted her birth story for her numerous times, as well as for other mothers along the way. I remember every illness, doctor and hospital visit. With each one, I remember the nervousness of hearing the diagnosis.
She crawled early, walked by nine months and climbed out of her crib at thirteen months. The fear of her tumbling out caused her father and I to move her to a toddler bed, where she never stayed more than a few minutes before we found her climbing into ours. Which in-turn caused me to continue to rock her until she was dead asleep before putting her down. This, was a mistake I paid for when her little brother joined our family three years later. How could I possibly rock a young child and newborn at the same time? Looking back, it was a mistake I wouldn't have changed. Every moment I spent holding her in my arms, while she still let me, was worth whatever price I paid.
School separation was hard on both of us, but as the teachers promised, each year got better with time. Now, she would rather be anywhere but with me. I'm the mean one. I'm the one who tells her she can't do something or shouldn't do another thing. I'm the one who tells her to change her clothes, she's not wearing that out of the house. No more: hold me mama. No more: tie my shoe for me mama. Instead, I get: I'm leaving, driving to the next town over, to shop. I get: A teenager who locks herself in her room for hours as she watches Netflix, Snapchats or retweet's on Twitter.
As her Senior year of school began, and I dubbed each milestone of the year #SeniorBucketList17, it occurred to me that eighteen years is not nearly enough time for me to have her ready for the world. For her, it's more than enough. She can't wait to sink her claws into college life. For me, I see that dark headed-braided-pig-tailed little girl who fell on the playground on her first day of school and needed her mother to tell her she was going to be okay, in order for her to want to return the next day. I see the same dark haired girl, only a bit older, who split her shin open to the bone and needed eight stitches, holding my hand as we patiently waited on the doctor to suture her up in the emergency room. I see the bob-style-cut girl learning volleyball skills and making the "A" team in middle school. I see her growing into a mature, but somewhat immature, teenager. Demanding attention but only when she wants it. It's her way or the highway and many times I've picked the highway. I watch as we butt heads. The forever battle between mother and daughter. Will it end? Everyone says to wait until she's out of college and she'll want to be your best friend. This, I can't see. Maybe they mean she'll be her father's best friend...
She's an adult now. I have no say in the choices she makes, legally. (I know, that as a parent, I'll always have something to say, it'll be up to her to heed my advice) I won't be signing papers for her because she's under age anymore. No more sign here if you are the parent/legal guardian of the minor. She's an adult now. A part of me should be rejoicing, celebrating, toasting her father with a beer because we successfully brought a human being into this world, through adolescence to adulthood. We've been successful. Fruition has occurred. Our tiny "practice child" has succeeded. From the moment she became the older sibling we began to realize our first born was the practice run for the children who followed. Teasing her from time to time with this nickname. She gets it. Everything that was a first for her, was a first for us too. She's an adult now. She is our first baby and our first adult. Our first success.
As much as I'd like to keep her my baby girl forever, I can't. Not only is it not physically possible, but it's not fair to her either. She deserves to make her own way. She deserves to see the world through her eyes. She deserves to make her mistakes and figure out how to fix them herself. She deserves to make her own success too. Her father and I might have been successful in raising her, keeping her alive, teaching her morals and values, and taking care of her needs, both physical and emotional, but it is up to her to find her own success. She won't be alone though. Not only can she return to us at any time with questions about this and that life has to give her, but she has God standing, walking, running, sleeping alongside her. She knows something bigger than herself. She's clothed in his love, mercy and grace. He is her strength and shield. I know she will lean on him as she faces the struggles of truly becoming an adult. Eighteen may be the number the government puts on adulthood, but it's the mind that truly has to become an adult. It could be years before this happens for her, or it could be today. Either way, my time of enjoying her does not end with this birthday. It never ends. Not as long as I am her mother and God has entrusted me with this role.
Psalm 28:7
The Lord is my strength and my shield;
My heart trusts in him and he helps me.
My heart leaps for joy, and with my song I praise him.
Happy 18th Birthday Kenna, my baby girl,
Love,
Mom
