In one week, my youngest child will get married. She is 32. Her older sister is married and the mom of a two year old, and her older brother is still finding his way in life, with navigating rather rough seas. Oh the days of being in charge of their daily travels. The hardest thing I have had to do in life is find the letting go spot, and just letting them be. And, here I am again.
I reflect often on the day she landed in my arms in our “birthing room” at LAX. Six months old. Quiet and curious. She came to us through International Adoption, but she was in my heart from the moment her picture had arrived, and even before. She was a cranky baby, until a life-threatening bout with Kawasaki syndrome almost took her from us at 18 months, but after that harrowing episode, she was a delight and a non-stop circus in motion, complete with acrobatics, stand-up comedy, theatrics, giggles, parades and fun. She just hadn’t felt well. Now she did.
So different from my very serious older daughter. So different from her brother. But so alike to them both, in some ways, too. My oldest daughter like most teens liked to pretend she didn’t have parents. My son was oblivious to that fact. My youngest would yell with delight whenever she saw me and say, “Hey, there’s my DAD! Hey Dad! Come meet my friends!”
