My daughter had the fun of attending a school dance last night. It was homecoming, and the school was celebrating the victorious performance of their football team on the field of play. Although, if truth be told, that is only the excuse to get dressed up in new clothes and go out to eat at a place fancier than the usual McDonald's. The dance is the backdrop to the after party, an excuse to change out of the finery and get back to normal, and where food and fun and a smaller group of friends get together to enjoy what is left of the evening of playing adult.
It is fun to see how they look and act when they are wearing their finest clothes; the boys in their suits and ties, and the girls in their party dresses and high heels. They are so close to being grown up, it takes your breath away to see someone who was your little one such a short time ago suddenly taller than you, with their own style and flair, and living life on their own terms. You are privileged to spend the time with them, you suddenly realize, because it is over all too soon, and you have to wonder where the days went when the future stretched out in front of you like an endless vista?
I remember holding my newborn in my hands and thinking that 18 years was too long. I was terrified I would fall down on the job, and somehow irreparably damage this little being who owed her life to me, but to whom I felt I owed the world. She was so innocent, so new, so fresh and untried, and it was my obligation to get her to adulthood so far into the future in one piece, a whole, civilized human adult.
There have been a lot of bumps along the way, and there were times I have recognized my own abject failure and wept for the frustration of how far I fall short. As a parent, I have made more mistakes than I could possibly hope to atone for, and yet, they have forgiven me each and every time I disappointed, and love me still.
My darling little bundle of sugar and spice barely made a dent in the blanket when first I held her in my lonely waiting arms. She was born too early, in a hurry, as she is even now, to be about her business. [This issue of early versus late continues to plague us, as I am always a day late and a dollar short, while she is early for everything and thinks she is late if she arrives only five minutes ahead of schedule.]
She had an apgar score of zero when she was pulled from the Cesarean incision, [that would be out of a possible ten, which is the only time she has not rated a ten on anyone's scale] and her birth constituted a crisis of emergency technology as can only be found in a modern hospital setting. I am grateful for it all, because without it, I would not have my spunky little survivor. But it is not the restful, peaceful portrait of motherhood that you see in the parenting magazines, either.
For the first days of her life, she was laid out naked on a little open table with a heat source right above her, nothing like the cozy incubator you see pictured on the television shows or in books. They explained to me that they needed her accessible, so that they could get at her instantly when she had problems or distress, as she so frequently did.
They did continual testing of her blood, her temperature, her blood pressure, all her vital signs, to be sure that she was getting what she needed to survive and thrive. They measured each drop of blood that came from her little body, because a premature infant does not have much to spare. The only time she was touched was when they had to perform another procedure on her, because each touch caused her to stop breathing, and then they would have to intervene.
She was already a week old when I was finally allowed to hold her for the first time, and it was the most amazing thing. I sat in a chair, still weak myself from the surgery and the aftermath of a very difficult pregnancy, and they handed this bundle of blanket to me. You know how a seven pound baby feels, there is a little substance there, so I didn't expect a four pound infant to be that much different. The nurse put her into my arms, and the anticipated weight wasn't there. I almost threw her into the air, as my arms came up to meet her and kept going. She was light as a feather, and there was more blanket than baby, which was not the first time she has surprised me, and certainly hasn't been the last, either.
So it was with a full heart that I looked at my beautiful daughter last night in her best dress and her Converse sneakers, a mix of elegant and casual that defines who she is about as well as anything. She is funny and sarcastic, cynical and worldwise. And yet, underneath all the adult trappings, she is still my little girl in pink, and I felt my heart skip a beat when I watched her with her friends - a full blown person with her own personality and her own opinions and feelings and style - so much more than I imagined when I took that tiny infant in my arms sixteen years ago.
I watched her drive away from me with her boyfriend at the wheel, heading first to his house to take more pictures with his parents, and then off to have the fun of the evening, and my throat caught for a moment in astonishment that 16 years could pass so soon. As they turned the corner, I blew her kisses from my heart to hers, and wished I had the power, like a fairy godmother, to preserve her from hurt and pain and the bumps of life. I wished that every moment of her life would be like the ones she was having then, filled with joy and hopefulness and fun.
But since real life isn't a fairy tale, and the world we live in is not made of dreams, I pray that she will hold the good times like last night in her heart and mind as collateral against the harder realities that she will face. When the final balance is totalled, I hope she will know that she contributed to the plus column in my life and that of many others. She has made the difficult moments of my life better, and she has pushed the happy moments to greater heights.
Butterfly kisses are real, and I feel them in my stomach whenever my little girl throws her smile my way. I am grateful that God gave me my daughter on loan, to watch over and cherish and be a part of her life.
It is fun to see how they look and act when they are wearing their finest clothes; the boys in their suits and ties, and the girls in their party dresses and high heels. They are so close to being grown up, it takes your breath away to see someone who was your little one such a short time ago suddenly taller than you, with their own style and flair, and living life on their own terms. You are privileged to spend the time with them, you suddenly realize, because it is over all too soon, and you have to wonder where the days went when the future stretched out in front of you like an endless vista?
I remember holding my newborn in my hands and thinking that 18 years was too long. I was terrified I would fall down on the job, and somehow irreparably damage this little being who owed her life to me, but to whom I felt I owed the world. She was so innocent, so new, so fresh and untried, and it was my obligation to get her to adulthood so far into the future in one piece, a whole, civilized human adult.
There have been a lot of bumps along the way, and there were times I have recognized my own abject failure and wept for the frustration of how far I fall short. As a parent, I have made more mistakes than I could possibly hope to atone for, and yet, they have forgiven me each and every time I disappointed, and love me still.
My darling little bundle of sugar and spice barely made a dent in the blanket when first I held her in my lonely waiting arms. She was born too early, in a hurry, as she is even now, to be about her business. [This issue of early versus late continues to plague us, as I am always a day late and a dollar short, while she is early for everything and thinks she is late if she arrives only five minutes ahead of schedule.]
She had an apgar score of zero when she was pulled from the Cesarean incision, [that would be out of a possible ten, which is the only time she has not rated a ten on anyone's scale] and her birth constituted a crisis of emergency technology as can only be found in a modern hospital setting. I am grateful for it all, because without it, I would not have my spunky little survivor. But it is not the restful, peaceful portrait of motherhood that you see in the parenting magazines, either.
For the first days of her life, she was laid out naked on a little open table with a heat source right above her, nothing like the cozy incubator you see pictured on the television shows or in books. They explained to me that they needed her accessible, so that they could get at her instantly when she had problems or distress, as she so frequently did.
They did continual testing of her blood, her temperature, her blood pressure, all her vital signs, to be sure that she was getting what she needed to survive and thrive. They measured each drop of blood that came from her little body, because a premature infant does not have much to spare. The only time she was touched was when they had to perform another procedure on her, because each touch caused her to stop breathing, and then they would have to intervene.
She was already a week old when I was finally allowed to hold her for the first time, and it was the most amazing thing. I sat in a chair, still weak myself from the surgery and the aftermath of a very difficult pregnancy, and they handed this bundle of blanket to me. You know how a seven pound baby feels, there is a little substance there, so I didn't expect a four pound infant to be that much different. The nurse put her into my arms, and the anticipated weight wasn't there. I almost threw her into the air, as my arms came up to meet her and kept going. She was light as a feather, and there was more blanket than baby, which was not the first time she has surprised me, and certainly hasn't been the last, either.
So it was with a full heart that I looked at my beautiful daughter last night in her best dress and her Converse sneakers, a mix of elegant and casual that defines who she is about as well as anything. She is funny and sarcastic, cynical and worldwise. And yet, underneath all the adult trappings, she is still my little girl in pink, and I felt my heart skip a beat when I watched her with her friends - a full blown person with her own personality and her own opinions and feelings and style - so much more than I imagined when I took that tiny infant in my arms sixteen years ago.
I watched her drive away from me with her boyfriend at the wheel, heading first to his house to take more pictures with his parents, and then off to have the fun of the evening, and my throat caught for a moment in astonishment that 16 years could pass so soon. As they turned the corner, I blew her kisses from my heart to hers, and wished I had the power, like a fairy godmother, to preserve her from hurt and pain and the bumps of life. I wished that every moment of her life would be like the ones she was having then, filled with joy and hopefulness and fun.
But since real life isn't a fairy tale, and the world we live in is not made of dreams, I pray that she will hold the good times like last night in her heart and mind as collateral against the harder realities that she will face. When the final balance is totalled, I hope she will know that she contributed to the plus column in my life and that of many others. She has made the difficult moments of my life better, and she has pushed the happy moments to greater heights.
Butterfly kisses are real, and I feel them in my stomach whenever my little girl throws her smile my way. I am grateful that God gave me my daughter on loan, to watch over and cherish and be a part of her life.
Behold the future!
