When my daughter was little, when she was growing by inches seemingly overnight and her vocabulary was multiplying daily by factors of 50, my mother would always admonish me to mark those moments and record those accomplishments—major and minor. “Children grow up in a blink, in a breath,” she’d say.
I’d nod nonchalantly and say, of course. I will. I wouldn’t forget.
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A sometimes overly diligent mom, I can happily report that as far as the list of must-visit spots included in this issue is concerned, we covered the highlights. We frequented the majors—the Zoo, The Magic House, Purina Farms, Grant’s Farm, Cardinals games, Six Flags, The Muny, City Museum, and the carousel at Faust Park. Once, we even schlepped to the state fair in Sedalia, before the clowns were politically incorrect and when camel rides were available. We took her to circuses, air shows, parades, and breakfasts with Santa and the Easter Bunny. Then she turned into a teenager, got a driver’s license, and zoomed off to the mall.
A few weeks back, my husband and I made that epic trip: taking our child to college. In one long day to Fayetteville, Ark., we deposited enough belongings for a family of five, made a couple of dashes to Target for forgotten necessities, purchased her books (at the jaw-dropping rate of $125 a minute for the time it took to complete the transaction), and decorated her dorm room (think monograms).
Then we were done—and we were gone. As soon as I woke up the day we left, tears started cruising across my nose. I couldn’t really believe that we would be leaving without her, that my mornings wouldn’t start with trying to dislodge her from her bed, and my nights wouldn’t end with her coming home. I tried recalling all of those 18 years of days past. I couldn’t.
I did forget.
I should have listened to my mother.
The journal I started the day we received confirmation of her adoption has lain untouched since she was about 2. My foray into the world of scrapbooking ended while Katie was still in elementary school. But hours were whiled away worrying about why she couldn’t pull herself up on the balance beam, her lack of dedication to her books, and as she turned into a teenager, some of her choices in companions.
And now she’s gone, and I’m trying to figure out how often is not too often to visit. If we go for parents’ weekend, is trekking back a month later for her birthday excessive? The sweet man I married cautions (as he always does) that we should leave it up to her.
Of course, we will talk and Skype often. She will still come home, but only to visit—not to live as a child with her parents. So I caution all who are reading this to heed my late mother’s words. Enjoy these days.
They really are over in a blink, in a breath.
