What I Forgot to Write Down
Beloved called me this afternoon to say the wood floor guy called, like, a few months early to say our wood is in, and could he bring it over tomorrow?
Except that meant I needed to clear out six floor-to-ceiling bookshelves between dinner and the work left over from today. With MY BABBEE'S childhood memorabilia, along with my master's thesis, gifts from family members, copies of three books (one out of print) and photo albums dating back to college.
Oh, and in the space I used for eight lovely years when I worked for BlogHer from my house, where I greeted my daughter each day when she got off the big yellow bus from kindergarten through sixth or seventh grade.
This won't take long.
The biggest thing I noticed, though, in scooping out books I loved from writers I used to email daily to my daughter's early elementary accomplishments, is how far away I've grown from the daily documenting of my own life. In leaving BlogHer, I left blogging, and tweeting, and really ... all of it.
In some ways, it's okay, because the little angel does not want me documenting her life anymore. It's her life, after all, not mine. My dad always says your right to swing your arm ceases when it connects with someone's face, and writing about my teen feels like that. Like telling you the story of my current parenting situation would be stepping out of the bounds of my experience and treading on hers. I'm not interested in doing that.
There are, however, some things I've forgotten to write down.
I always thought teenagers would hate me. She doesn't. Unbelievable.
Watching your child drive is both terrifying and awesome.
I owned a horse as a kid. My daughter seems more confident than I ever felt on horseback. That's pretty cool. But as she's lost interest in the horse we've leased since she was a preteen, I've taken over. He's my horse now. I didn't see that coming.
I cry over all the things, because I can see the moment where she leaves looming on the horizon. I thought eighteen years would take longer.
I always thought I would be so old when she left, but now I realize I will have probably 20-30 years of life left after she starts hers. Whut? I did not plan for this. I need a second act.
I don't want to put on her that I hope she has babies. But I hope she has a baby, because I want to talk to her about becoming a mother. I'd love to talk to her about what that feels like. I'd love her to know how much I truly love her.