Seventeen Years

A love letter to both of us.

When you left just now, I remembered the moment seventeen years ago today when the nurse handed you to me, your full weight in my arms instead of my belly. How you were somehow in here for almost a year. Last night I revisited every single note I’d made about your first nine months of feedings, movements, predilections. Combed through printed photos from our old digital camera; printed, glued in, carefully dated with affection. In my full-court press toward simplicity I actually considered tossing the journal. I kept it.

When you left just now, I stared out over the hood of your departing car into miles of mountains, each one an invitation to you, beckoning: You’ll be driving far away soon. While I flex my muscles of acceptance, I consider the contrast—each peak for me is a not a calling, but a vision exercise. Look down at the screen, then look up once in a while. The shift in priorities makes me giggle inside.

Photo by Jessie McCall at ABGTW, July 2023.

When you left just now, you waved and said I love you no fewer than three times from the window of your car; the generosity of your heart, the pleasure of heading back into the kitchen to tidy up after you’d made quesadillas into a damn art form. For which I happily stirred sour cream and the Cholula together for you to dip in. The tingling response in my body—still—when you eat and really enjoy it.

When you left just now, the smile on my face as I turn toward the house and pause, my full but spacious life, tomorrow’s work flight. Seventeen, so kind and wise. My mind settles on your desire to do what’s right, and the way you swim through your days with focus and sincerity. The dream I’d had of the man you’d become, shimmering with clarity.

Birds outside singing to locate one another in tall, swaying trees.

The Perceptive Parenting course is now available for your listening. This podcast-style, audio-based course is comprised of short modules on learning, relating, caring and getting creative in your parenting.