May guardian angels watch over you as you travel the roads ahead.
I remember the day you were born so vividly – as if I held you in my arms for the first time, only yesterday.
A living, breathing piece of me … my everything … my ‘why’.
You asserted independence and an eagerness to see and explore the world from the moment you entered it, stretching your strong neck to lift your tiny, wobbly head high into the air.
It wasn’t long after you learned to crawl that in a matter of seconds, you climbed onto your wooden rocking chair, reached up to pull yourself onto the coffee table and slipped – catching the corner of the table with your cheekbone. I was so grateful it missed your eye, but with all the bruising and swelling one could barely tell the difference.
I also remember a time that you toddler-sprinted across Grandma Debbie and Papa’s living room, straight into the corner of the wall at the opening of the hall. I must have been more traumatized by the event than you were, as I remember crying long after your tears had dried.
You inherited your mother’s gracefulness – or lack, thereof. Clumsy, perhaps, should have been our family name, and you often wore the bumps and bruises to prove it.
Your pain was – and is, my pain. For as long as I live, that will not change.
Now that you’ve grown beyond the days of riding contently in the passenger seat, I try desperately not to worry. But each time you climb behind the wheel, a slight wave of panic sweeps over me – leaving me short of breath (and sanity), until you return safely within my reach.
It is my hope that these fears will fade as you venture out into the world on your own … that while you will always be my baby girl, I will have the strength to let go, and let God.