Dear Ava,
Six years ago, your dad and I had one of our most memorable arguments.
We struggled with the decision to send you to kindergarten. You’d just turned five and separation anxiety was the name of your game.
I wanted to delay your start another year until you felt more secure; your dad stressed that you should enroll because you were ready. Guess who won?
Now I’m writing as you wrap up your time in elementary school. In a few months (weeks, really), you’ll be in what your dad and I called “junior high.”
This is the place where you’ll learn more about others than you will in college. That’s where you’ll go to learn about yourself. These next few years are going to be the hardest — for you, as you work through situations that make no sense — and for us, as we work through fears of letting go.
See, this separation anxiety business is inherited. That’s the gene you got from me.
You got a few other traits, too. On a hot summer morning, you kicked your way into the world with a foot so long that it smeared off your birth certificate.
The finest blonde hair and darkest blue eyes were the prettiest things I’d ever seen. And when you grabbed my finger and gave me a reassuring grin (which I refuse to consider was anything else), I knew that you were a cure for a lot of hurt.
No matter what anyone says, I’m a firm believer that we travel through this existence in desperate need of a mother. Whether we liked or loved the one we were given makes no difference. If we’re lucky, it’s a presence that will get us through everything else that life throws at us.
If we weren’t so lucky, then we spend our days looking for something to fill that void. You were given to me to fill that void. I’ll thank God every day for knowing what I needed, exactly when I needed it most.
You’re going to need help, too, but you’ll fight it. Hopefully, you won’t put up the fight that I did when I was a teenager — paybacks are hell — but I do expect a showdown every now and then. We’re too much alike.
You’re going to make mistakes, but I’ll make more. I’m going to hang on too tight, stay too long, become too involved and say entirely too much. You’ll do the same. But I’ll forgive you as I hope you’ll forgive me.
Those mistakes, by the way, are learning experiences. You’ve heard us say many times, “You can do this the easy way or the hard way.” It’s still your choice.
One of the saddest parts of being a parent is allowing a child to make mistakes. It’s brutally difficult to stand back and watch what’s sure to happen. However, you can avoid some of the headaches by remembering what we’ve always preached to both you and your sister:
If you don’t want it known, don’t say it.
If you don’t want it shared, don’t write it.
If you don’t want it remembered, don’t post it.
If you don’t want it saved, don’t pose for it.
If you don’t want it told, don’t do it.
But please tell us about it.
While I’m sure you won’t want my opinion every moment of every situation, and while I’m sure one of your greatest lessons will be learning how to solve your own problems, I want you to promise that you’ll always bring those thoughts home. The rest of society (school) might judge you, but we won’t.
We will criticize your first dates and scrutinize dresses for dances, though. That’s our job.
Oh, one more thing: If you get your heart broken, don’t show it. Dignity is your best friend. Protect her.
From the first day of elementary school to the approaching last, your dad and I have been immeasurably proud of you. And it’s just the beginning!
We can’t wait to see what you do with all the potential that you hold back but we know exists. Hold your head up high (but hold your values higher), flash that smile and walk like you’ve been there all along.
It’s the first of many steps toward independence. And as you showed us six years ago, and as you’ll show us again in six more years, you’re going to go far.
You’re ready.
With all our love,
Mom (and Dad)
