A Love Letter to My Daughter

Ode to the Graduate

Dear Boo,

As you will one day learn, your child’s graduation from high school signifies the end of an era. As such, it forces the parent into a rosy, nostalgic state of reflection: surely, it was only last week that you were wobbling around at my ankles, issuing demands like ‘Mo muffin!’ and ‘Dat!’ Surely it was yesterday when you took a fifth grade social studies test and vehemently insisted Florida was a country? Wasn’t it five minutes ago that I was cowering in the passenger seat, shrieking things like “Truck! Truck! Oncoming truck!” as you ventured onto the big road for the very first time?

I believe two contradictory things about child-rearing: first, that kids are who they are from birth, emerging from the womb with their own fully-formed personalities and attributes; and second, that the impact of parenting—both good and bad—cannot be overstated. How many choices did I make that changed the course of your life? How many of my own deficiencies did I pass on through my lame-ass, lazy parenting maneuvers? Did I expose you to enough experiences? Wait, maybe I over-scheduled! Did I foster compassion and integrity and an appropriate amount of ambition? Did I love you enough?

Regarding that last one: I’m pretty sure I could not love you more.

We don’t have an idyllic relationship, you and I. You’re bossy and I’m bossy and we butt heads all the time. But despite my messy parenting, you somehow became a glorious, gorgeous human being. You’re feisty and funny and frugal and smart and kind. One of the things I love most about you is that when you are happy, you’re incandescent. Your eyes crinkle up into half-moons when you smile. You howl when you laugh. You wield the same lacerating wit as your father, which you deploy mainly at the dorkiest member of the household, i.e. me. I don’t even mind, because the two of you together make me laugh so much.

You can imitate any accent and impersonate anyone. I’m sure you remember Morris and Schmorris? When you were twelve, you and your friend Mary Morgan actually invented an elaborate, hilarious dialect, which you assigned to these two buffoonish alter-egos named Morris and Schmorris. I would kill to see Morris and Schmorris again! Are they gone forever?

One thing you’re not: awkward. You’ve always been one of those people who radiate personality—people want to be around you, they want to hear what you say—but at the same time, you are a good listener. You can talk to anyone of any age, in any socioeconomic circumstances, from any background, and be natural and genuine and engaging in a way I’ve never been able to master. (As your mother, I have also experienced the times, especially in middle school, where you’d come home and I’d say something offensive, such as ‘Hello’ and you’d shriek ‘Do not talk to me!’ and storm up the stairs—but this column is not about those times.)

You were a dazzling baby. Not so much in the beginning, when you were colicky and frankly not the most attractive (a single strip of hair, like a monk’s tonsure or male pattern baldness; a squashed nose; a perpetually irritated expression.) You had exactly two modes of communication: an enraged bellow and a grumbling noise that my mother-in-law called The Scold.

But then you got cute. And smart! We taught you sign language before you could speak or walk and somehow you deduced that there was a magical connection between the baby monitor and the sudden appearance of the grown-ups. You’d pull yourself up and stare ferociously into the camera before raising up your fat fists, repeating over and over the same signs (MORE MILK, MORE MILK) until we came running.

You were an early talker and the sign language vanished in a torrent of squeaky, high-pitched words. Somewhere around the age of one and a half, you knew the alphabet and all the colors and numbers and animal sounds, along with a whole army of words you used to command us.

You got bigger. You bestowed upon your dolls a variety of creative names born of unfathomable toddler logic: Wens, Elodee, Big Daddy, Boot. (Boot??) You acquired a baby brother and and then a baby sister, along with the elemental pleasure of shepherding and protecting a brand new life.

You haven’t always had it easy. When you were in second grade, your dad and I were told you couldn’t keep up with your classmates and would be best suited at another school. You were struggling with everything, but especially learning to read. Your writing was often backwards—right to left, letters reversed, misspellings. Math was a nightmare. I still remember your little face dissolving in grief when we broke the news. On the last day of second grade, you tried very, very hard to smile but couldn’t quite manage it. The other kids whooped and celebrated, but you clutched the teacher so hard we had to pry you loose.

We transferred you to a school for children with learning differences. (We were able to do this only because, as two doctors, we could afford it. It was very expensive and I think about the kids who can’t afford this kind of thing all the time—but that’s another column too.)

After a couple years, you could read more fluently—although still slowly—and were able to transfer back to your original school.

You’re brilliant in so many ways, but I know high school has been hard. There’s no grade inflation and the pace is fierce and your classmates all seem to be mastering cold fusion in their garage labs as they compose award-winning sonnets about the geopolitical situation in Iran. The teachers load y’all with so much homework it’s unreal. With no input from us, you developed your own system for studying: you create these giant scrolls, where you transcribe all your notes. Then you record yourself reading them aloud and listen to your tapes repeatedly. You are indefatigable: you will not stop until you're certain you’ve mastered the material. One of your AP teachers reported that in his 37 years of teaching, he’s never seen a harder-working, more prepared student, and I would agree. You are not a quitter. (And lest anyone think otherwise, I’ll state for the record you graduated with a perfect GPA.)

During high school you did a whole bunch of things without consulting your parents. Some we will not mention here, but there are two I’ll share:

—Although you loved it, you quit the field hockey team so you could study without being overly stressed. I just bragged on you for not quitting, but you figured out that actually sometimes quitting is the smart thing to do. And you were right.

—You obtained a job in a boutique so you could earn your own spending money without being dependent on your parents. (You did eventually inform us of your employment status when it turned out you didn’t know your social security number.) It amazes me how rarely you ask us to buy you anything.

You’ve always been the kind of kid who gets things done without assistance, or, often, even any notification to us that you’re doing them. When you were in eighth grade I was surprised to be cc’ed on an email from the parent of a fifth grader whom you’d apparently been mentoring. It read in part:

Saying Thank You doesn’t even begin to express the gratitude we have.  You have made such an amazing impression … you reach her in ways that we as parents, or Mrs. Daniel as a stellar teacher, can never reach her (because well, we are old and not so “with it”!  lol).  She soaks up every bit of knowledge and advice you offer her, like a little sponge.  Since she has started meeting with you on Day 7’s, I have seen so much improvement in her organization skills and her willingness to push through difficult tasks; and her self confidence has soared.

I love this about you because there was no secondary gain in play. This effort did not go on your transcript or win you any awards. I don’t know how your teachers found out but I know you didn’t do this in an attempt to garner praise from us. You never even mentioned it.

That brings me to the thing you've accomplished of which I am most proud: your devotion to little kids who don’t have your academic advantages. Over the years, I’ve watched as you created your own preschool and elementary age tutoring program, with all these little manipulatable objects and worksheets and science projects. I would estimate you’ve spent hundreds if not thousands of hours with two ESL children in particular over your high school years. You persuaded your school to cover expenses for twelve years of education for them if a spot opens up, and facilitated free academic testing for the oldest one. I love how passionate you are about children in general: how they learn, how they behave, what they say and do and think. You care about inequity in education, but you also care about these children as precious individuals. Do you do it because you recognize something of yourself in them? Or does it come from some fundamental place of warmth in your heart?

You are a good person, Boo. Daddy and I love you so much.

Five months ago we crowded around your computer and watched your face turn ecstatic as you opened your college admissions portal and realized you’d been admitted to your dream school. That’s the moment it hit me: you’re leaving us. Oh my beautiful, determined child! I will miss you every day.

And every day, I will celebrate that you exist. Go out, and do good.

Love, Mom