I am hoping to retain my composure enough to write this as I sit here tonight. This momentous day has come, and is already over without fanfare. In fact, it was barely acknowledged with more than a comment. I think that it deserves more laud, so I sit and write this letter to my beautiful daughter on her last official day of homeschooling.
My dearest daughter,
It has been eight years now since we first took up crayons and pencils--nine really, if you count preschool. I think back over those years with great fondness, as I allow myself to grieve that they are over. It is bittersweet tonight, but the bitter will fade and the sweet will remain.
So long ago, I bucked the system. No Kindergarten was good enough for you. How could they be, when in my heart of hearts all I wanted to do was have you with me? I wanted to teach you to read and count and draw and paint. I loved the smell of Play Doh and new workbooks, and was so excited to share my love of numbers and words with you. You were such a bright little girl, and so easy to teach. Our days were blessed.
We had a little bump in the beginning, as your first few weeks of Kindergarten were marked by the tragedy of 9/11 on your fifth birthday. We protected you as best we could, and continued on. It was not long before we were back on track again. What a pleasure to have your best friend join us in our little schoolroom. You and she were full of giggles and joy, as you remain today. I am so glad she was able to be with us the first two years.
Our classroom was my pride and joy. Remember the jungle of the rainforest hanging from the ceiling? And then there was the time we had planets orbiting around the room. I look up and still see the hooks on the ceiling that I never took down. I remember beans straining to burst from their casing as they were pummeled by the afternoon sun in their little baggies. We had actual bean plants from them, I believe, out on the ledge. I stopped that when I got too afraid of one of you girls falling from the open window trying to water them.
We used to have one day a week as field trip day. I was a mother-on-a-mission in those days. I figured all one had to do was ask, and I was right. I asked at the library, and we got a behind-the-scenes tour of how books are checked in. At the fire station, and we toured the entire upstairs, and you children got to spray a fire hose. At the hospital, a candy-striper took us all around. I asked as we passed an ambulance, and you got to tour inside. You received a blown-up latex glove with a face drawn on it. I asked at the sheriff's station, and you got your own sheriff giving you a full tour of the inside of a police car. Brother even got to turn on the siren.
I wonder if you remember the day that we experienced five modes of transportation. Besides the car and bicycle, we walked to the bus stop, took the bus to Palomar Airport and had lunch while watching the planes take off. I remember a pilot enjoying showing off his airplane to us. Another day we took the train to San Juan Capistrano. We almost lost little brother as the doors to the train started to close unexpectedly. Recently we joked about it on the terminal trains at the Denver airport, but I still held onto you and your brother's hands tightly while disembarking.
I am guilty of craft abuse, and for that I am sorry. I made you jaded by the time you were ten. You did your quota of crafts by third grade, and it ruined you for future summer camps, art classes, or Klutz gifts. I have backed off for the last few years, so I hope it has given you the time and space to heal. I hope so, because you are so very talented in that arena.
I liken this journey to a downhill ride on a gently sloping hill. We started out so full of enthusiasm and motivation. I was re-energized when brother started school, but I realize that the change was not necessarily too wonderful for you, now that you had to share my attention. Or fight for it, really, as I tried to give my son the same amazing early experience that you had. No wonder you still punch him.
As the years went by, the Play Doh dried up and was tossed. The art projects gave way to essays, and the math manipulatives were replaced with a calculator that could do inverse sine. Sadly, for a couple years I allowed myself to be replaced by a DVD teacher who had more time to explain things. But you loved the fact that you could "pause" your teacher.
This year you moved from the classroom to your own room, after we painted it bright pink and got you a mammoth executive corner desk and hutch that would make Donald Trump envious. With the supersize monitor on your new computer, Internet access, a telephone, and a bunk bed for kicking back and sleepovers, you were set to enter preteendom. We even left behind those DVD teachers, after we could no longer stomach those shoulder pads. You were in your element just given the computer, your books, and your iPod, left to yourself to figure it all out. I would get the occasional "Mommy! I need help!" but for the most part, you did it on your own this year. I am proud of your independence.
And I forgive you for all the abuse I received when I tried to explain math problems to you. Heaven forbid I speak longer than one minute when you asked me a question. Someday as you sit in a hard plastic chair in a stone-dead boring college lecture as you try to keep your eyes open over the T.A.'s droning, you will realize just how damn good you had it.
You're my bright, shiny penny. You are brilliant in my mind, and I am so very proud of you. You excel at whatever you put your mind to, and you will be successful in whatever endeavor is blessed enough to get you. You now need more that I can give you, because you need more from your friends than from me. I accept that, and I encourage it. I actually look forward to redefining our relationship to one where I am less of a task master and more of a support for you as you become a young woman.
I have a feeling, though, as you attend eighth grade this fall, that one day not too long after school starts, I am going to hear, "Mommy, I need help!" I'm not so sure this is the end. In fact, I think this is just the beginning.
Forever yours,
Mommy