She Was My Own Before I Had My Own

There's a girl... not so little any more.  She was one of my own long before I had my own.  She was with me almost every day.  I would say I was her "babysitter", but that would be unfair even to myself.  For the first five years of her life, I all but raised her.  I remained in her life even when I went away to college, when I got married, and when I had my own kids.  By then, she was old enough to babysit mine.   After schools, days off, weekends, holidays, hours, moments, memories.

And then, came the horribleness of divorce.  Her parents became judgmental, and even after knowing me most of my life, they chose a side without being asked to.  They chose a side that wasn't mine.  They took her away from me, excluding her from my life.  Just like that, she was gone.

Fast forward six years... she finds me at a Christmas party, I was completely oblivious that she was there.  There's a big difference between twelve and eighteen, she was all grown up.  She tapped on my the shoulder from behind, and whispered "you don't even recognize me".  I spun around and all of the sudden the eyes staring back at me were five years old.  There was my girl.  She was crying, and she took my breath away.  I couldn't stop my tears, or the pain of missing her.  I held her so close to me, just like when she was mine...

I had seen her a few more times after that, a couple of times a year, trying to keep tabs on her when I could, but never intruding on what was left of what growing up she still had to do.

Two years later, I walked into work one day... and there she was.  The new work experience student.  There she was - in my day.  Every day.

I am so grateful for her being in my everyday.

It's hard.

She's there.  And I can't moosh her all over.  I can't hug her and rock her, and touch her hair.  I can't mommy her the way my soul missed.  I can't whisper "you're not a mistake" to her as she falls asleep, correcting every slip her mother made.  I can't.  She's grown up now, and I missed it.  And she's there, and she smiles, and she wants it to be easy for me.

Today, we were talking about chicken pox.  And she says "I wonder if I had them?" She turns to me with the question.  "Yes, you had them.  I remember the fever, and the oatmeal baths, and the lotions.  I was there." She was my own... she knows she was my own.  She knows.

There's only a week left...and she will be gone again.  And I don't know what to do about that.  Carry on, I suppose, and hope she remembers, and is grateful for our time.