I am a crier. Sad songs, great movies and really good newspaper articles get me every time.I cry at the drop of a hat. I try to pass it off on postpartum hormones or lack of sleep, but the truth is I’ve always been this way. I cry when I’m mad or sad or really happy.As you can imagine, when it comes to my daughters, I’m a total basket case. So, on the day of Lollie’s first dance recital, the tears were flowing early.I’m not so hot at doing her hair, so the sweet ladies at Checkered Flag dolled her up. As she sat in a big girl salon chair, tears welled in my eyes. Earlier in the day, we were rushing out to the final rehearsal. I put the car in reverse. “Mom,” she yelled from the back seat, exasperated. She drew out “Mom” into sixteen syllables. “You forgot to buckle me in.” At that moment I realized I am a mom. Not a mama anymore – a mom. It was a very grown-up moment for us both. That’s why I teared up at the beauty shop and when flowers arrived for her from my sister: we’re starting to do some big-girl things. Her wonderful, beautiful life is stretched out before her. My emotional state didn’t improve much this week as we began preparing for Mary Fin’s baptism, set for today. I cried when I picked up her gown, and I’m just hoping to get through the ceremony without becoming a total mess. I can’t explain why I got sentimental this week when we had a huge old piece of furniture removed from our house, but I do know why I cry as my daughters reach milestones. I cry because I know something about what they’ll experience in life — the love, the joy, the heart-pumping happiness and the deep sorrows, the heartache and the disappointments.
I cry because there’s so much to teach them. How do I teach them that they were created in God’s perfect vision? How do I instill kindness, compassion and grace in their hearts? How do I make sure they know that it’s nice to be important but it’s more important to be nice? How do I ensure that their self-esteem isn’t mangled beyond repair in middle school? It’s up to Wesley and me to make sure they know they’re good enough. I want it written in their hearts that God is always there and that if they reach up for him even a little, he’ll reach down the rest of the way. I know that the best way to teach them these things is to show them — by example — and that is monumentally hard in the midst of a temper tantrum after a long day, no naps for them and little sleep for me. These questions remain on my mind, as they were the day of the recital. Yet, that night, after the incredible recital produced by Jack Jackson, the four of us loaded up in the car for the ride home. “Lollie,” I said. “You were a star!” “I know, mama,” she quickly replied. “We were all stars.” Oh, my heart soared. She’s getting it, I thought. How sweet! And then, her small voice from the backseat: “Except me. I was the famous star.” Heaven, send help.
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