The Story She’s Writing

Last Sunday, as we were driving Kelsey back to her apartment after breakfast, we took the opportunity to stop and smell the roses. Or look at the mums as it was in this particular case.

Since it was still relatively early on campus – and by relative I mean that it was 11:30 a.m. after a game day and huge blowout win – we had the South Oval pretty much to ourselves. And because my family knows me oh so very well, they knew I was chomping at the bit to get out there amongst the mums and take a few photos.

Which I did and which was utterly delightful.

This time of year on campus (with the mums in full, glorious bloom) is just spectacular.

I would like to take this opportunity to tell you that I did not embarrass my family by laying on the ground to get these shots.

Anyway, as we walked the South Oval, Kelsey pointed out a few of the buildings that she has class in. And she went on, describing her days…

I park over there…I walk to here…then to there.  Sometimes after that I go to the union…I meet a friend…have lunch…go here…

The thing is, I know pretty much what her schedule is on any given day. But being therewith her, listening to her describe it, walking where she walks, seeing what she sees. It was wonderful.

So we’re walking along, and I’m snapping photos, and watching her and listening to her. And I don’t know – it’s as if I sort of disconnected from that part of me that is solely “mom” and found myself seeing her more objectively. If that makes any sense. And what I saw was this young woman who is so totally connected to this place. So completely engaged. So enjoying her life and this experience. And I could see in her how proud she is of this life that she’s creating for herself. And how now in many ways, this is her home.

I have this big sign in my kitchen that says, “Home is where your story begins.” And when I think about it as it pertains to my girl and her university, it’s so right on.

She’s writing her own story now.

You should know, as I sit here writing this blog post, I’m chuckling to myself a bit. I can’t help but remember Kelsey being in middle school and high school and asking me to help with her English papers.  It wasn’t so much that she wanted my help organizing content or actually writing her papers, but rather it was more for backup.  Stuff like “What’s a fancier way to say {this}?  What’s a better word for {that}?  Should I put a comma {here}?”

Always such an independent child she was. And proof that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

{Dear Mom, I’m sorry. Times infinity}

Anyway, after she finished with writing the paper she’d often ask me to proof-read it. And the conversation would usually go something like this.

Her – “Hey momma, would you please read my paper and tell me what you think?”

Me – “Of course! But I need you to be specific…Do you want me to just look for spelling/grammatical errors? Or do you want me to really tell you what I think?”

Let’s just say my daughter is keenly aware of my perfectionist tendencies.

Her – {Eyeroll} “Momma.” {Sigh}

Me – “What??”

Her – {Harumph}

Me – “I’m interpreting that to mean just spelling and grammar.”

Her – {Groan}

I might take this moment to share with you that these little “interactions” were positively diplomatic as compared with the WWIII that usually accompanied me trying to help her with her math homework.

I would also like to add that if you are starting to feel sorry for this dear child, it would be an entirely appropriate response.

All joking aside, the simple fact of the matter is that I always enjoyed reading Kelsey’s papers.  I loved hearing her voice – a voice that was often so different from mine, but looking back it’s probably what I loved the most.

So now here we are – she and I – years later. And stepping back a bit, I can say that I’m still very much enjoying the story she’s writing. Loving her voice. Appreciating where it’s so different. Cherishing where it’s the same.

I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to totally disconnect from this part of me that is “Mom.”  She so much a part of me and so much a part of who I am.  But maybe that’s OK too.  Maybe it means that I can still help her once in a while.  Whether it’s just moral support, or putting things together, or maybe just a little proof-reading from time to time.   It’s all good.  Because she is my girl and she is a great writer.

Peace, Kelly