Dear Elli,
We dropped you off at summer camp today. Your first ever weeklong summer camp experience. It was the most torturous afternoon of my life. I'm serious. I'd rather give birth a thousand times over than do that ever again.
You see, you didn't volunteer for summer camp. I made you do it. Not because I'm trying to get rid of you for a week (as you vehemently accused me of multiple times over the past several days), but because I think it's good for you.
You're going to be nine years old in 10 days. I think you should start spreading your wings. I want you to live in this world with the knowledge that you are capable of doing so, independent from everyone and everything. I want you to learn that you, and your ability to think and reason, are all that you'll ever need to succeed in this world. I want you to understand your value.
Sometimes I forget how difficult that journey can be. And I never knew, until today, how difficult that process would be for me to witness.
You told me 1,000 times over the past week that you didn't want to go. I told you 1,000 times that you were going. I tried to explain that it will all be great, and that you'll have tons of fun. You didn't believe me. You bargained with me, you begged me, you yelled at me, and you cried to me. And I told you that you were going. End of story.
You finally accepted it, and agreed that you might have a little bit of fun after all. But you were still really nervous.
Meeting new people is hard for you. Fitting in with kids can be hard for you. Summer camp will be hard for you. I know it. But none of us grow without discomfort. Easier said than done, I know. But that won't stop me from pushing you. Even though it hurts for both of us.
You're a tough kid, Elli. In some ways, that makes it more difficult to watch you struggle. Because your inner toughness often requires you to struggle alone.
As we were standing in line at the registration desk, I saw you start to cry. You didn't cry like a baby, though. You cried like a young woman. You stared straight ahead, gritted your teeth, and wiped the tears from your eyes with your little fist before they could run down your cheeks. No sobbing. No begging. Just pure determination to be strong. To power through. To be okay.
In that moment, my heart broke into a million pieces. I know how difficult it is to hold it together when you're so close to falling apart. I know how difficult it is to face your fear with grace. I know, baby girl. I absolutely know.
But I never knew how much more difficult it would be to watch my baby do it. How difficult it would be to not scoop you up into my arms, say this was all just a terrible idea, and take you home to your safe place with me by your side.
I wanted to do all of that. But I didn't. Instead, I squeezed your hand a little tighter and felt yours squeeze mine, too. That's always been our secret code for "I love you and I've got your back". I took a deep breath and willed myself not to cry in front of you. And I bent down and cracked a stupid joke in your ear about campers with food allergies. You smiled. And I knew you were going to be okay.
We walked to your cabin, met your counselor, made your bed, and said goodbye. And I made it all the way to the car before I started sobbing like a psych patient.
I'll admit it. I'm really freaking hard on you a lot of the time. I know I demand more from you than most, and I know it's hard to live up to my expectations.
But I want you to know that I've never been more proud of you than I am today.
I'm pretty damn strong kid, but you were so much stronger than me today. And even if the camp calls me tonight and says that you need to come home, it won't take an ounce of my pride in you away. Because you did it. You looked your own version of terror in the face today, wiped the tears from your eyes, and you made fear the little bitch that it is. That's why I'm proud.
Today, I realized that you are growing up to be even more than I hope. So much more than I expect. And far greater than me.
I am so grateful to have you as my daughter. And I love you more than you'll ever know.
Mom
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