Ruthie came home yesterday with a love letter crumpled haphazardly into the front pocket of her backpack, put there in secret when she briefly left the room to put on her snowboots. She pulled it out and unfolded it, a huge grin on her face. It was a piece of paper crudely shaped with safety scissors into a makeshift heart, a glorious display of the innocence of the grade-two set.
What does it say, Mommy?
It says 'to ruth i think you're pretty love james.'
She giggled and told me in hushed joyful whispers that today during morning recess they were going to get married on the ball field. I smiled and told her not to kiss anyone until she was old enough to drive. She smiled back at me, her satisfaction evident at having caught the eye of one of the more eligible elementary boys. He was tall (for a seven year old), dark and handsome and he routinely looks for Ruth's full attention on the monkey bars.
I realized how completely unequipped I am to handle this.
This heartbreaking thing they call 'growing up'. The inevitable highs and lows of watching your children repeat history in their own unique ways, with their own personal hopes and dreams ready to take flight, and quite possibly vastly different from what dreams you held at the same ages, and equidistant from the dreams you hold for them now.
How do I tell my daughter that love is so beautiful and difficult all at the same time? How am I going to celebrate her love when and where she finds it without wanting to save her from the certain heartbreaks? How do I teach her that it isn't okay for a man to hurt you ever, even if you could never prove it? How do I teach her that I didn't do things the right way and I'm incredibly lucky that I ended up with her stepfather? How do I make sure she is happy with the one she loves, secure and safe, treasured and respected? How do I not cringe when she brings home the rough ones, a dangerous glint in their eyes, rapture in hers? How will I ever stand back and let her make her own mistakes without ever letting her know that I could have prevented things she will go through?
How do I keep her small just a little while longer while I linger on the innocence with which she played yesterday, forgotten in her preparations for her recess nuptials today?
Ruth is only seven years old now. If these are my thoughts and feelings brought forth by an harmless note to my daughter from a classmate, how are we ever going to make it through the next ten to fifteen years?
All these thoughts rushed through my head like wildfire, and Ruth folded the note up and placed it back in the pocket of her pack and banished my fears in an instant with her next remark.
Don't worry, mommy. James is going to have to share his Oreos with me too or tomorrow Steven will play the groom.
