So I did a little digging through some old blogs I used to write. I even found one about how it felt -- to me -- to have Obama elected our new president.
But the one that struck me as I read and re-read old blogs, was the following. It choked me up with some raw emotion I had suppressed, reminded me that the tween that is so prickly to me now was prickly at seven. And it raised in me a tenderness toward her that I have been desperately seeking in recent months, remembering her at seven, at five, at birth.
Thinking about her. At 25.
Nov. 9, 2008
Sometimes, when we are walking down the street, I feel my daughter start walking right exactly precisely next to me. And in that very moment I push my hand out of the edge of my sweater only to find hers rising to meet mine.
Wordlessly, we are walking hand in hand, me and my daughter, my first baby, the one whose life -- from the minute she was born -- has been an absolute push and pull. Against me and toward me, and over again.
Within minutes, she will have pulled her hand away and back into her pocket. And I will have held my breath the entire time, cherishing the intimacy of it and knowing it will always be her pulling back her hand. Her company. Her love. I ache to be close to her and she resents this simple fact.
The minute I reveal that I know her secret, she will be gone for good.
So I stay quiet, waiting patiently for the next time she lets me hold her hand.