I suppose I should have posted a sign if one were available. Maybe enforced an auto reply or an illustration of sorts. I should have provided a placeholder or given a heads up. I should have sent out a warning in case someone happened to be concerned, but it's possible anyone reading my random thoughts in this space for any length of time would have noticed the trend. June comes around and the words escape again like Houdini until the fall. There must be something about listening to my daughter state her age, new and foreign in her constantly maturing voice, which forces me to take a step back in the documenting.
One would think, after six years, the opposite effect would prove true. She celebrates another birthday and I would immediately start juggling words by the syllable, alarmingly fast with sharpened skill… but no. That's not the case. Every summer when the leaves tighten their grip on their limbs, I find myself holding on with white knuckles too. Every year around this time, I’m left holding on not willing to accept what’s coming. The inevitable shift. I subconsciously know the final tug, a deep breath, just before the leaf gives in and releases itself from the tree will confirm we’re onto the next season. Summer ends and we have to let go.
There’s always something bittersweet about the accepting of one phase’s end and the beginning of another. The speed in which the transition occurs leaves little room for hesitation or embracing, comfort and coasting aren’t available states in the world of parenting. To parent is to exist in a constant place of restlessness with a never-ending pull forward. They don’t warn you about that part. They focus more on the milestones ahead, but fail to reveal just how often you’ll look back. One minute she’s a baby and then she’s not. One day it’s June, then it’s September and you’re left holding the season you’re in with everything you have.
Let go, they don't tell you that part. Let go, but not until you have to.
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