I am going to miss her more than I am willing to admit. For so many years, through the rapid tempo deployments and the myriad of training exercises, we were allies to one-another in her father’s absence. Through each move and each challenge, we leaned on and fought with each other, because we were all we had until things got settled.
All of a sudden, her time with me flashes in my mind. She’s an infant with her days and nights confused– it’s 2 AM, and we’re rocking in her daddy’s chair, singing Sheryl Crow. She’s four again, and I am holding her in my lap to read her one last bed time story. She’s five, hiding under her bed because she doesn’t want to go to school. She’s seven, and we are on walking home from the train in Aschaffenburg. She’s eight and she just won 2nd place in Tae Kwon Do nationals for her age division. She is 10 and I am lying next to her in bed because her father is deployed and the nightmares are keeping her awake. She’s 13, and we’re fighting about sleepovers. She’s 15 and she has just had her first kiss. She’s 16, and we are browsing through a voodoo shop in New Orleans. She’s 17, standing before me, holding an acceptance letter and scholarship offer from her 2nd choice college.
In my heart, I know she is ready for this journey. Thanks to her life as a military child, she is resilient. She has the strength and maturity that many of her peers lack. Even though she has faced many personal challenges, she has grown tremendously through them. I recognize that it’s time to let her test her wings, and I want her to find joy and success. But at the same time, I want to hold on to her just a little bit longer.
