My daughter started 5th grade. The last year of elementary school. Every time I think about it, I get a lump in my throat, my eyes fill with tears and my chest constricts.
I’m sitting by her bed as I write. She’s asleep. Blissfully unaware of the mother falling to pieces beside her.
How did this happen? How did she get so big, so fast?
She looks like a person. A real, full-grown person. Not a child. Not a baby. Just a person.
And as I look at her, I wonder. Did I do it all right? Who am I kidding. I know I didn’t do it all right. Did I do anything right? I yelled too much. I know that. And got annoyed at the little things. I know I complained and wished the days to move faster, faster.
And now they have.
And I would give anything to have them back. Rewind the clock. Do it all again. Do it right this time. A second chance. Well, maybe without the sleepless nights and constant butt wiping. Actually, forget going backwards. Those days were hard. And lonely. But if I could stop time now. Freeze us all in place, I would.
My mind spins. Regret. Pride. Sadness. Hope. Questions. A million questions. Did I spend enough time with her? Did I spend the right kind of time with her? Was I present enough? I was there, every day, but was it enough?
Was I enough?
All I know is that I love her. I will always love her. Have always loved her. With every fiber of my being. I hope she knows that.
I hope she knows that I did my best. Despite my failings as a mother. My faults. My foibles. I hope she knows above all else, she is loved.
And I hope that love is enough.