MANDY FLYNN: In the blink of an eye

It was light. Then it was dark. Then it was light again. Then dark. Light. Dark. Light. Dark. Light…

“I can reach!” you squealed and we clapped and laughed and celebrated the very first time you realized you could reach the light switch in the kitchen. Tiny little feet on tip toes. Arm stretched oh so far above your head. Pudgy finger pushing it down, then up, then down again. Grin as big as Texas.

It was a momentous occasion. And it was light. Then dark. Then light again.

They tell you not to blink, which is difficult because they say the average person blinks 25 times a minute. They tell you not to blink because time goes by so quickly, you don’t want to miss a thing. If I was a counter, I’d know that’s roughly 225,540,000 blinks I’ve had since the day you were born. More than two hundred million milliseconds all clumped together that I could have been paying attention. Somehow, they got past me.

It’s days like today I wish I hadn’t blinked so much.

This time next week, you’ll be gone. Gone off on that incredible adventure you’ve been preparing for for a long time now. Gone not too far away, but not too close, either. Just enough, you decided. We can call and text and Skype and email. It will be like nothing’s changed, someone reminded me. Except you won’t be coming down the stairs this morning in your pajama pants, your hair all a muss, asking what we have for breakfast. You’re on your own now. And you’re going to be just fine.

Like I told your brother three years ago – You will flourish. You are prepared. You are strong and kind and smart and faithful and capable of anything you put your mind to. We are so proud of who you have become and cannot wait to be front row to witness all that you will be. You are my baby girl, and one of the greatest gifts I will ever be given.

So forgive me if I cry just a little when we take you to school this week. Forgive me if I hold you just a little bit longer, a little bit tighter. Forgive me if I help more than you think I should or give you advice you’ve heard a million times before. Be patient with me. It’s because I love you so much that I’m acting this way. It’s because as I’m helping you make your college dorm room bed and putting clothes in your college dorm room dresser and making sure you have your college books, I’m going to be remembering lining your stuffed animals up on your bed a dozen years ago and folding tiny dresses with smocked bunnies and reading you Goodnight Moon ‘just one more time.’

They tell you not to blink, and I understand why more today than I ever have. I wish I had them back, those blinks. They got past me, and now it’s time for you to leave. Your room will be dark for a little while, but you’ll be home again.

And it will be light. Then dark. Then light again. Then dark. Light. Dark.

It is a momentous occasion, this week.

And you … and I … we’re going to be just fine.

Email columnist mandy Flynn at [email protected].