Edify Write

Do you remember? We didn’t realize the better waiting for us during our becoming. We hoped and dreamed, but we didn’t know what life would truly be like on the other side of childhood. 

Remember? We played “Dolls.” In the backyard. In the basement. In the kitchen. Molly, Julie, Abigail, and Liberty. They were our kids. We took them on camping trips and picnics. Taught them the things we were still learning, like riding bikes, cleaning bedrooms, and having patience.

We would also play games about growing up. Do you remember? I cried when you left for college. 

“When you grow up and go away, I will miss you,” I later wrote in my scrapbook. 

So scared, and yet we still dreamed of the future.  

“When you get your driver’s license, we can go shopping together,” I told you one summer afternoon.

A week later, I was left with scraped knees from learning how to ride a bike. Two weeks, and we started school. I complained about math, while you wrote essays. In the afternoon, we took our dolls on vacation. 

“We’ll never outgrow playing dolls,” we promised, but eventually we brushed Abigail and Liberty’s hair for the last time. 

Do you remember?

You got your driver’s license, and we were ecstatic. But with the new beginnings, our teenage years led to doubts and fears that we didn’t know about when we were kids. What if growing up isn’t worth it? 

“Will I ever find ‘the one’ and get married?” 

“Will I land my dream job?” 

“I miss the days when life was easy. When we could just play dolls,” I thought one spring evening.

A week later, I was left with the news that you had met someone. Three weeks, and you introduced me to him. We played card games and ate a nice meal. We take a breath, and you’re walking down the aisle. 

Do you remember how quickly time passed? 

We worked at the same job, laughed, and complained about co-workers. In the evenings, we would say goodbye. I would go to my home and write blog posts. You would go to yours and eat dinner with your husband. 

Nine months. I’ll never forget the first time you laid your baby in my arms. Real. Breathing. With a voice and soul uniquely his. Soft skin and addictive smell. Tiny heart. Delicate hands. Everything and nothing we dreamed of and imagined. Life in a swaddle. All our pretending: the eighteen-inch dolls, the make-believe house, and the imaginary friends had never compared to the real moment that it prepared us for.