I can still remember the first day I dropped off my daughter Sarah at day care, my first day back at work after maternity leave. Believe me, it was much worse for me than her, since she was only four months old. She didn’t cry but I did. I also still have vivid memories of her first day of school (more tears, mine again) and first day of high school (no tears at all). 

Now, here she is, 22 years old and a couple of months away from graduating from university with an an honours BA history degree, which means, of course, more tears. What’s more, in September, she’ll be starting her master’s degree in public history (that involves museums, archives, curating, that kind of thing.) And even more, she’s attending the University of Western Ontario in London, my alma mater. (She and her boyfriend Zach take great joy out of asking me if buildings on campus were around when I was there 30 years ago, as if they didn’t have such things back in those dark ages.) 

This all fills me with so much pride that I am wiping away my tears as I write this. 

But it all seems such a short time ago that she was a child, my baby. Learning how to walk, to talk, to eat with a spoon, drink out of a cup, dress herself, ride a bike. Playing with her friends, dancing in the living room, valiantly trying to play the piano, singing almost all the time, doing homework at the table, talking on the phone, running down a soccer field, hair flying, to score goals, long arms and legs propelling her through the swimming pool as she got her lifeguard certification, sitting outside on warm summer nights and talking to the neighbourhood boys. 

Now she is writing essays, making presentations in class, cooking her own meals, doing her own laundry (and she even cooks and cleans when she comes home!), making major decisions about her future, finding her own places to live at university, applying for a master’s program, taking a trip to Cuba with Zach last month and even thinking about an eventual career and marriage. 

Did I picture this when she was a baby? Maybe not all the details but yes, I did hope she’d become a smart, independent, loving, beautiful (inside and out), talented woman who’d go to university and then make a life for herself. And she’s right on target. All of which makes me incredibly happy and proud. 

And makes me realize that somewhere along the line, while I was worrying about teething, chicken pox, ear infections, innoculations, soccer injuries, laundry, meals, pierced ears, periods, homework and paying for university (ha!), I must have been doing something right.

Christy Chase is a newspaper editor/writer who until recently worked with Carly. She has one daughter, who slept through the night from the age of two months and basically weaned and toiled-trained herself, for which she is eternally grateful. Christy lives in Oshawa, and is also an aunt to two great nieces and a great nephew.

Possibly related posts:

1. Growing, smiling, eating (everything) and a never-ending hat protest: 4 months
2. Why timeouts are working. So far.
3. Of course the car wouldn’t start! Or: Sicker than we thought. Or: How Julia and the turquise van saved the day.
4. All grown up, someday
5. Empty