The following is written by a guest blogger. The opinions expressed here are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of Bob Lacey, Sheri Lynch or the Bob & Sheri show.
A plume of black smoke sighed from the back of the shiny yellow bus that had lost its way and was awkwardly wedged into the carpool lane. The Kindergarten parents nervously gripped their kids’ hands as they zig-zagged in front of the cars, stifling the flow of traffic. It was the first day of school and it was certainly an unorganized, overly-crowded mess. But, I didn’t care. I welcomed the delay. It gave me a little more time with her.
She wanted to listen to Brain Stew by Green Day, explaining that “rocking out” was the best way to make the little knot in her belly go away. So, I found the song, cranked it up and there, in the carpool lane of her school in the old money section of town, we rocked it out like the misfits that we are.
When it was finally time for her to get out of the car, I repeated what I’ve told her every day since she started pre-school, “Be kind, smart, funny and good. Make good choices. I love you more than anything in the world.”
“I will, mama. And, I love you more than anything in the world…oh, and dad too.”
And, with that she shut the door and I watched her walk away.
As I watched her walk away, her new Adidas backpack that took her forever to pick out swaying behind her ever lengthening frame, I had to summon will power from deep within not to jump out of the car and run after her. I wanted to feel my back complain as I scooped her up and covered every inch of her face in kisses.
As I watched her walk away, smiling at the teachers working carpool and waving to one of her friends, I needed her to know that I thought that she was made of stars and sunshine and warm spring rains and pure magic. I bit my jaw so that I wouldn’t shout that I was so incredibly sorry that I decided that I could stop taking Zoloft last year and she had to experience her unauthentic mama – the one who yelled too much and had too little energy. I promised her that I would never do that again.
As I watched her walk away, grinning at her sweet new sneakers that she had picked out with such purposefulness, I wanted to ensure that she knew that there were always going to be those who were just plain mean but to never let them steal the unique, charming light that made her the incredibly special being that she was. I had a deep desire to tell her to take chances and to read everything she could get her hands on and to be a globe trotter and to sleep under the stars. How I wanted her to know that she could be a trapeze artist or a rock and roll drummer or a news anchor or a DisneyWorld ride operator.
As I watched her walk away, her grey camo lunchbox swinging by her side, I started crying as I silently thanked her. I thanked my goofy, gap-toothed, gracious, confident, pork-chop eating, Goldbergs-watching, Wimpy Kid-reading, Olive loving, rule-following, crab-catching, soccer-playing, WVU-cheering, roller coaster-riding, incredibly kind hearted kid for making me so much better. For making me the one with the soft edges, the one who loves big and open and loud. The one who is fun and filled with joy. The one who will always, always, always show up for her.
I want her to walk away – knowing that I am forever right behind her.
Soshally Awkward
Sosha Lewis is a writer whose work has been featured in The Washington Post, Huffington Post, MUTHA Magazine and The Charlotte Observer. She writes about her sometimes wild, sometimes hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking past filled with free-lunches, a grimy sports bar, a six foot tall Albino woman who tried to save her teenage soul, felonious, drug addicted parents, an imaginary friend named Blueberry and growing up nestled in the coal-dusted mountains of West Virginia.
