Painted Blown Egg

Emma loved this little painted egg
in a display case, like her mother
before her. I bought it in San Francisco
when I was in seventh grade and kept it
on my bookcase for decades, until Emma
took it into her own room years ago.

Day 259: Painted Blown Egg

 First the little egg stand came
unglued and got lost. Then, just
a few days ago, the egg broke.
Next trip to SF, I know what
I'm getting for a souvenir.

My little egg is 18 years old today. Her first birthday away from home. There was an article in the New York Times just a couple days ago about the hidden risks of children becoming legal adults.

No, I will not ask her to complete a living will or give me power of attorney. I'll cross that bridge when I come to it - if I come to it - and I hope I never do.

I remember what I was doing eighteen years ago today, of course: walking around and around and around the block in San Francisco, hoping to induce labor after my waters broke. And then walking around the block again. I should have realized it would be my last carefree walk around the block for many years to come. How little I appreciated the freedom of opening the door and walking out it, easy as a marble rolling down a waterslide. 

I'm free again, but the freedom feels more like a missing molar. It doesn't hurt, but you notice it's missing. Your tongue keeps exploring the gap, and then your finger. Yep, the tooth is gone. Yep, you can still eat an apple, and brush and floss, and smile. No one sees anything different. But you know that something important is gone.

It's amazing how quickly she turned into a human being again. A few weeks at college, and suddenly her room is cleaner, and she likes the food we cook for dinner, and she doesn't mind a passing kiss on the cheek. I never liked that her birthday fell between Thanksgiving and Christmas - sometimes it felt a little like an afterthought - but I'm so grateful she was home last weekend for birthday cake. I hope she's enjoying the Zingerman's brownies and colorful birthday candles in her dorm tonight. I hope she feels pretty in her new outfit, and that someone sings happy birthday to her in person (besides me, over the phone). I'm pretty sure she's not going to rush off and join the army. I'm pretty sure that I'll agree with how she votes. I'm pretty sure she's going to graduate from college. I'm pretty sure she's going to be just fine. She already is: mighty fine.

Happy birthday, my sweet little E.