Just as she's done just about every weekday morning for as long as we can remember, my daughter climbed the stairs to my bedroom this morning -- her little puppy Lola trailing behind -- and climbed into bed with me.
"Hi," she mumbled, before pulling the covers up to her chin, rolling on her side and beginning to snore like her dad.
Just as I've done every morning, I scooted up behind her and snuggled, my nose buried in her brown curly hair. Lola found her own spot at our feet.
And just as we've done every morning, we stayed that way until the alarm went off.
We do this every morning despite the fact that she's now a tweenager with 12 years of living behind her, and despite the fact that she's now a head taller than me, and she can wear my clothes, but, thankfully, no longer my shoes.
But this morning was different.
This morning I paused to savor the moment, knowing that there may be only a few more like this. School ends in two days. Soon she'll be sleeping her summer days away and won't want to be awakened at 6 a.m., then again at 7.
And in just a few months she'll be a seventh grader who just might be too cool to cuddle with her mom in the mornings. Or any other time.
I put my daughter on the bus this morning, just as I've done a thousand times before.
But this time was different.
This time, I paused. I stopped. I waited. And I waved. Then I watched her ride away.
And for a moment -- just for a moment, my heart silently hoped that she would come back.
Yesterday in Oklahoma, a whole bunch of parents put their kids on the school bus with a kiss and a hug and a wave. And they didn't come back. Others came back broken. Or shattered.
The same thing happened in December in Connecticut.
And it's terrifying to know that we live in a world where that can happen.
"Hi," she mumbled, before pulling the covers up to her chin, rolling on her side and beginning to snore like her dad.
Just as I've done every morning, I scooted up behind her and snuggled, my nose buried in her brown curly hair. Lola found her own spot at our feet.
And just as we've done every morning, we stayed that way until the alarm went off.
We do this every morning despite the fact that she's now a tweenager with 12 years of living behind her, and despite the fact that she's now a head taller than me, and she can wear my clothes, but, thankfully, no longer my shoes.
But this morning was different.
This morning I paused to savor the moment, knowing that there may be only a few more like this. School ends in two days. Soon she'll be sleeping her summer days away and won't want to be awakened at 6 a.m., then again at 7.
And in just a few months she'll be a seventh grader who just might be too cool to cuddle with her mom in the mornings. Or any other time.
~~
I put my daughter on the bus this morning, just as I've done a thousand times before.
But this time was different.
This time, I paused. I stopped. I waited. And I waved. Then I watched her ride away.
And for a moment -- just for a moment, my heart silently hoped that she would come back.
Yesterday in Oklahoma, a whole bunch of parents put their kids on the school bus with a kiss and a hug and a wave. And they didn't come back. Others came back broken. Or shattered.
The same thing happened in December in Connecticut.
And it's terrifying to know that we live in a world where that can happen.
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