How have 37 years gone by so quickly?
On Sept. 25, 1977, my beautiful daughter was born, the first newborn I ever held.
On Sept. 25, 2002, I drove into Tucson at sunset. “I don’t know what I’ll do now but I did it,” I said to myself. I had driven cross-country from Maine, without a job, without a place to live. I was 56 years old.
Thirty-seven years ago today there was no question what I would do. I would love my new baby girl. Watching her was my greatest joy; it still is.
Being a mother has taught me more about myself than anything else.
Sometimes being a mother and being a daughter get mixed up.
Today I realized that only two tangible things were left to me by my father: a beach blanket that we sat on during our summer vacations in Atlantic City and a manilla envelope with my name scrawled across it.
(What do you call these cardboardy envelopes? Anyone know?)
My mother seems to pop into my mind on her own, although she died 28 years ago. No tangible reminders necessary. I’ve mostly separated what’s me and what’s her — but still, she’s here.
I’m so proud of Brook. She knows who she is. She’s the most articulate, smartest person I know, and she’s funny. Really funny.
There’s still a lot I’d like to do. And after 12 years in Tucson? I’ll never get over living in the sunshine. I’ve made a lovely life for myself. And I hope to keep learning about life from my kids.