On a warm August morning in 2005, clad in a sparkly top, light up sneakers, and equipped with a Hello Kitty backpack that (at its owner’s insistence,) contained EVERY SINGLE item on the kindergarten supply list, Ryann and I sat in front of her elementary school on her first day of school.
We had been to Open House and met her teacher. She had talked endlessly about leaving pre-school behind, about going to the same school as sissy, about being so big. She was as her snaggle-toothed, five-year-old, little-Miss-Thing self put it, “So ‘cited!”
As I looked back in the rearview mirror on that first day, I saw her wheels turning. Perhaps her confidence was a little shaky and her doubts were creeping in, she said through bright, navy eyes rimmed with giant tears, “I’m not ready.”
Me neither, I thought. It is that moment when as a parent you want to say to heck with truancy and formal education. This is my baby and we shall go on the lam. We shall eat ice cream and play on the beach and live with reckless abandon. We shall camp at all the national parks and ride every roller coaster at every state fair and catch the Grand Canyon at sunset, Niagra Falls at sunrise. It is I who will give her the education through the lens of the real world. Those thoughts were such an affront of my real fear, as if me being on the run with my daughter might preserve the days somehow, as if keeping her from starting kindergarten might freeze that particular moment or age, preventing the inevitable ticking of Father Time.
Instead, I told her how great she was going to be, how ready she truly was, how much fun she would have and how many friends she would win over, how much good awaited her.
Then, I went home and blubbered.
I am pretty open with my comment that I have two children, had I had the second one first, I would probably just have one.
Ryann was not an easy kid. As a toddler, she awoke early, toddled down the hall, with focused, relentless pursuit of one thing, oatmeal.
She has taught me so much about persistence.
With her love language of quality time and physical touch. She loved to watch a movie. With you. In your lap. The whole movie. No matter how hot you both were or how much I was over the fiftieth showing of “Princess Diaries” and “Thirteen Going on Thirty,” she wanted us there together. This is probably still true today.
She has taught me so much about love.
Ryann has been the always been the champion of the under-dog. This has shown up at our house in an assortment of ways, stray animals and humans have found their way into our lives, most for the good.
She has taught me so much about compassion.
She famously threw a metal firetruck at her sister, removing a chunk of flesh, and causing a non-coagulating head wound for which she refused to apologize. She screamed from her room in the voice of a time-out child possessed, “Nooooooot sorrrryyyy.”
She has taught me so much about belief and conviction.
Ryann has had times of struggle, with school, with friends, with emotional health, with family. She has always figured out how to get to the other side and look back for the positive.
She has taught me so much about forgiveness.
Ryann put one thing on a New Year’s vision board in 2012. A picture of two white bunnies. I said good luck with that goal, sister. By October, she had secured two free rabbits, complete with house and demonic behavior. Bunnies are nocturnal creatures. We will pass over the rest of this story with the silence it deserves.
She has taught me much about never giving up.
She loves all things Sephora and Michael Kors. Her bathroom rivals any make-up counter. Her beauty advice, free and accurate, hopeful for all of us to have our best face forward.
She has taught me so much about being a fashionista.
We never went on the lam, but we have had many amazing adventures. Today, what started out as an apprehensive 5 year-old, graduates as a tall, beautiful, 17 year-old.
If she were to glance back at me as she crosses that stage tonight, I will be mouthing the whisper of how great she is going to be, how much fun she will have and how many friends she will win over, how much good awaits her.
Silently, my heart will be saying, “I’m not ready.”