Dear Jordan,
I worry about you.
You’re not mine, and I know that, but still. I want to sit you down and just tell you all the stuff in my head: how you should be nicer to your mom, and how it’s ok to hurt but not ok to hurt other people. But I know I ignored people my age that did that when I was your age, so I won't.
Meeting with you this last time was hard.
I know it’s been a while since we saw each other, but I really was trying to make it sooner. You had camp, and then I had a weekend of doctors’ appointments with my mom. Between your mom’s two jobs and me working nights, it was just hard to set something up. I regret that. Really.
But I’ll come back. Always.
There may not always be pizza and books and movies at the mall, but there’ll be me.
Even when you want to leave me behind and pretend you’re alone. Even when you are so jealous and scared and angry you can’t eat, or talk. Even when you think it doesn’t show, that I couldn’t possibly know or see.
There’ll be me. There for you.
Because you’re almost always in my thoughts whenever I talk to my friends or my mom. You’re there when I talk to God, when I play with my puppies. When I have free time, and my mind wanders, I find you.
And I worry the idea of you around in my head. I think about the person you could be if you follow the path most obvious before you right now. I think about how you could be different, and how I wish your life were.
I think about you, having kids and being happy.
You razzed me about getting all teary over “Brave.” Picked on me for liking a cartoon movie between calling slugbugs as I took you home. But every time I looked at you, all I saw was a kid who needed help. Someone who wanted to cry but didn’t know if she’d ever stop, wrestling with the hard light of becoming something unknown; each step weird and slippery with fear.
Someone said recently that we don’t have to create courage, or make it ourselves. And I like that, because it makes me think of Alice in Wonderland, being big after she had a cake. She didn’t know what being big meant, or what would happen if she were. She just ate cake.
Here’s your cake, beautiful Jordan-Alice. Take courage. Be big.
I’ll be there, when you feel little again, with more cake.
Decidedly for you,
Amber
I worry about you.
You’re not mine, and I know that, but still. I want to sit you down and just tell you all the stuff in my head: how you should be nicer to your mom, and how it’s ok to hurt but not ok to hurt other people. But I know I ignored people my age that did that when I was your age, so I won't.
Meeting with you this last time was hard.
I know it’s been a while since we saw each other, but I really was trying to make it sooner. You had camp, and then I had a weekend of doctors’ appointments with my mom. Between your mom’s two jobs and me working nights, it was just hard to set something up. I regret that. Really.
But I’ll come back. Always.
There may not always be pizza and books and movies at the mall, but there’ll be me.
Even when you want to leave me behind and pretend you’re alone. Even when you are so jealous and scared and angry you can’t eat, or talk. Even when you think it doesn’t show, that I couldn’t possibly know or see.
There’ll be me. There for you.
Because you’re almost always in my thoughts whenever I talk to my friends or my mom. You’re there when I talk to God, when I play with my puppies. When I have free time, and my mind wanders, I find you.
And I worry the idea of you around in my head. I think about the person you could be if you follow the path most obvious before you right now. I think about how you could be different, and how I wish your life were.
I think about you, having kids and being happy.
You razzed me about getting all teary over “Brave.” Picked on me for liking a cartoon movie between calling slugbugs as I took you home. But every time I looked at you, all I saw was a kid who needed help. Someone who wanted to cry but didn’t know if she’d ever stop, wrestling with the hard light of becoming something unknown; each step weird and slippery with fear.
Someone said recently that we don’t have to create courage, or make it ourselves. And I like that, because it makes me think of Alice in Wonderland, being big after she had a cake. She didn’t know what being big meant, or what would happen if she were. She just ate cake.
Here’s your cake, beautiful Jordan-Alice. Take courage. Be big.
I’ll be there, when you feel little again, with more cake.
Decidedly for you,
Amber
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