That is my baby, Chloe. I think she is about 5 weeks old. And that is me...in the fine sweater. I am 21.
In her first few weeks, that was about all we did.
She would sleep on my chest and I would float in the tremendous love of motherhood.
Today, Chloe turns sixteen.
If she was here at this moment, she would be saying, "Ugh, Mom! Are you crying again?"
Yes. Yes, I am.
Chloe is a picky eater; she can be impatient and bossy. There is an icy streak that runs through her. My sister sometimes asks, "How did you give birth to this demon spawn?"
Chloe is also intelligent. She can be very self-disciplined and she has a great sense of humor. Deep compassion bubbles up from her at the most unexpected moments, but for the most part she lives pretty straight forward. Her heart is steady and confident.
I miss the early days. Time seemed to last forever and things made sense. My job was to love and nurture. I did it well.
Lately, life has been teaching me lessons of letting go. The lessons are one thing, but I can feel them coming several months before they arrive. It stirs something deep inside me, filling me with angst and uncertainty. I feel unsettled in my heart and in my belly. I cling.
Two of such lessons have arrived. My heart slowly heals.
But this one...this lesson of motherhood and letting go? Well, I don't like it, but I will do it.
Slowly letting go.
I love my Chloe.