Dear Mom,
This letter is for all the times I forgot to say “Thank You” for all the little things you do for me that go unnoticed, and for all the times I never said “I Love You.” Even though we’ve been talking about college all year, you probably never thought this day would come. The day when I graduate high school and get ready to start my new life at college without you. As I’ve spent the past few weeks saying goodbye to friends and teachers, I’ve realized I haven’t taken the time to say goodbye to you. Granted, you still get to tell me not to eat ice cream for breakfast for a few more months, but my days at the Martin Household are numbered. So, I would like to take a few minutes to say thank you for the past 18 (almost 19) years.
Many memories swirl through my mind when I try to think of the clearest ones of you that I’m thankful for. Some good, some bad, and some that I will try to suppress for years. First, I want to thank you for being a great mom even when you were having a horrible day. Thank you for telling me that no, that is not a good color on you. Thank you for giving me the courage to try new things when I was scared to step out of my comfort zone. Thank you for driving me around and sacrificing your time and money. For all the other sacrifices I don’t even know about, thank you from the bottom of my heart.
One of the greatest things I’m thankful for is more of an experience that expands over several instances. I will always remember and appreciate the genuine interest you have in my friends and their lives. Thank you for wanting to hear about Sarah’s and Trey’s college choices, Mason’s random questions, Lauren’s go-cart accident, Michael’s requests to take our dog to prom, and so many more. Thank you for giving me the security of always having a home with two loving parents where my friends can always feel welcome, even when I’m not there. (By the way, Mary Kate has our garage code and Cameron broke our Christmas tree…sorry!)
One of the best things I can thank you for is a genetic gift…my red hair. Growing up, you continually taught me to not feel isolated or ashamed for having red hair. You taught me how to stand out and be strong by not being put down by snide remarks growing up. That lesson is one that I will be forever grateful of as I move on in my life, wherever it takes me. Not only my hair, but you taught me that even though I might be having a bad day, there’s always a way to turn my day around.
However, the best lesson you taught me isn’t just a lesson, it’s a choice to always see everything as an adventure. Someone left his watch at our house? Let’s make an adventure out of it. We’re camping in the backyard and it starts storming? A rainy adventure. We’re in Washington D.C. and our flight gets cancelled? Think of all the endless adventures waiting for us! There are people who go on adventures and people who are adventures. I’m lucky enough that I have an adventure for a Mom. And I’ve gotten to go on lots of adventures over the past 18 years all thanks to you.
Our time living together is coming to an end and that idea is scary. But, you’ve prepared me well for the next chapter of my life and I know you’re ready for me to move out so you can have an extra bedroom space. (Just kidding…a little bit.)
If you took all the time we’ve spent watching Scandal, Parks and Recreation, and Survivor together, that still wouldn’t be enough time for me to tell you all the ways that I love you. I don’t say it enough, but I do love you. In my defense, the majority of our conversations happen in the morning when you are wide awake and I’m not a morning person. However, I promise to make more of an effort in these last few months as long as I get coffee first.
I was your “guinea pig” first-born and the first to be your daughter. I was your first kindergarten send off, first 5th grade graduation, first teenager with braces, first high schooler, first child with a driver’s license, and now your first high school graduate and college student. Mom, you are my biggest blessing, my biggest fan, and everything I hope to be someday. Thank you for being a fabulous example of what a woman should be.
Love,Your Daughter Sally
Dear Sally,
Do you remember when I showed you a picture recently of a cute monogrammed umbrella I am planning on getting you for your first semester at UK in the fall? Hold onto that thought, because I have some background I need to share with you first.
Before you were born, when your dad and I had just been married a few years (while learning how to be grown-ups ourselves), we discovered we were pregnant with you. Shocked is not a descriptive enough word to begin to explain how we felt. We did not even permit ourselves to have a houseplant for fear of it wilting in a spider-web-covered corner.
We read books and surrounded ourselves with seasoned parents to glean hope and wisdom, but when we first saw you, something magical happened to both me and your dad. Without even communicating, we both somehow came together and formed this imaginary umbrella covering our new little family unit. Perhaps that is what we thought parenting was: creating a team to cover you with care and shield you from anything that could harm you.
Those first few years were so easy to keep our umbrella safely in place over your sweet, freckly frame. When you crawled and then walked, we just moved with you or led you in the direction we were going. Life as parents shifted a bit when your sisters came along. Our image of the safety umbrella stayed, but in my mind, we upgraded from a small, collapsible model to a strong, giant golf-sized umbrella so we could all five huddle together.
Playdates and preschool entered the scene as well as the realization that I had to slowly release my grip on your hand as I was still gripping the handle of our canopy. I watched you thrive in environments away from my direct care. Teachers, friends, and family had the privilege of sharing in the joys and discoveries you were making. Gymnastics classes, sleepovers with grandparents, and field trips to the fire station were eye-opening for you. You told me every single detail of your adventures when you came home, leaping into my arms with sparkling eyes and your sweet little words that would eventually be corrected by a speech pathologist. I never paid attention to your “dropped r or l sounds” – I only heard your stories of new discoveries or conquered fears. I would tuck you in at night, safely in your fluffy princess bed, which was nestled safely under our family umbrella shield.
Elementary and the hormonal middle school years flew by at lightning fast speed. Glasses and goofy braces were not enough to slow you down from your extremely driven personality. When teachers would explain your grades and accomplishments, I would always make sure each knew that we were not forcing you to achieve these high goals; you had this inner drive that was totally foreign to me. I was just happy that you could tie your shoes and brush your own teeth.
It was during those years too that I started hearing you dreaming more specifically about your future. Your younger years’ future wishes were to ride unicorns and wear ballet shoes while dancing with gummy bears. We would laugh as a family, but I always treasured the thought of your tuxedo dressed dad prancing in a fantasy forest with you. Hearing the words, “college,” “big city” and “career” made me shudder. How would our umbrella stretch that far to keep you safe?
High school became a greenhouse for you. Your entrance into Apollo with semi-frizzy hair and an apprehensive stance morphed you into a young woman with a warm smile to match your confident stride. While still clutching your sisters under our family covering, your dad and I waved goodbye many times as you stepped out on your own to tackle your goals. We snuck many times and watched from a distance, slowly tracking your progress and quietly cheering you on. The details of your adventures became less and less, so I learned to piece together pieces of your fun life by stalking your Twitter and Instagram. Even though you used our quirky family happenings as humor in many of your tweets by virtually rolling your eyes at us, I know you did it because you were happy in our umbrella-covered life.
So, now the time has come when I need to reassess our umbrella. Our original goal was to keep you safe from life’s storms, to shield you from harm by keeping you close. I see now that through the paths you have walked with us, the goal has actually been for you to edge closer and closer to the end of our reach. The goal of parenting is actually to hold your child close for her to grow strong enough to step out on her own.
My sweet Sally, as you walk soon in your cap and gown, know that I won’t be seeing a diploma in your hand. Instead, you’ll be holding that cute monogrammed umbrella. Our prayer is for this gift to allow you the freedom to walk into your future with the assurance that you are strong and capable to handle all the elements you will encounter. Oh, and don’t forget your rain boots – you may just see a gummy bear that needs a dance partner.
Love, Mom