6643 days ago, my son was born. My first child. (The number of days is courtesy of Google.)
I remember several things about that day- that “you’re-now-a-mother-so-your-life-will-never-ever-be-the-same” day.
I remember it was a Saturday.
I remember thinking that I had never seen anything so perfect.
I remember asking my guardian angel (if I had one) to please reassign him/herself to this new person. My time was up. I wanted to transfer my credits (if I had any) to this child.
I remember the panic in my chest when the nurse told me it was time to be discharged.
And I remember the lady in the elevator. “He’ll be going to Kindergarten before you know it,” she said.
No way.
I held my 6 lb. newborn son in my arms and chuckled. Kindergarten. What an absurd thought. My baby was tiny, he was fragile, he was new. Kindergarteners could walk and talk and balk. They were like grown-up people in little bodies. They were, in my mind, so… old.
I waved goodbye to the elevator lady, went home, and began my new journey as a mother.
But dang. She was right.
That baby grew. He learned to crawl and walk and talk. He gathered two brothers and a sister along the way. He not only went to Kindergarten but then to middle school and then to high school. And now here we are- at the threshold of Room 323.
In two weeks, I will leave that newborn baby in a college dormitory: Room 323. After a weekend of outfitting him with sparse furnishings and simple necessities, I will walk out and close the door behind me as if I was leaving any other room in the universe. Except it’s not any other room. And it’s not any universe.
It is my universe.
People often comment, “Don’t blink! It’s over before you know it.” True. However, it wasn’t always a quick journey. But I traveled every minute with gratitude, knowing it was an opportunity that some never receive. I felt all the stings, I rejoiced at all the triumphs, I prayed through all the unanswerables. My heart curled with every bob and weave that comes with traversing the unknown.
I filed all the moments in my heart. The rubber duckies, the Moo Moo Mozart, the binkies. The matchbox cars, the crayons, the Legos. The Catholic school plaid, the poster board projects, the spelling bees. Homecoming, SAT Testing, Prom. All of it. Every step of the way, I walked alongside- if not with my feet, always with my heart. This, I suppose, is why I dread Room 323.
Behind this door will come new adventures, experiences, heartaches, and friendships. The Pocket Guide to Life (otherwise known as “Ask Mom or Dad”) will be tucked onto a shelf, always available but rarely accessed.
Memory, like imagination, is a powerful companion. When invited (and sometimes even when it isn’t), it allows me to re-see moments in time. Swing sets and sand castles, t-ball and trains. A perpetual film reel of moments cast with my favorite actors and executively produced by God.
Goodbye, sweet boy. We’ll eagerly await vacations and holidays, emails and texts. May Room 323 – and all who enter it- treat you well.
And when the door gently closes, may you know you are deeply cherished and forever loved.
Click.
