As I pulled out of the driveway on my way to the office this morning, something caught my eye. I followed the motion to Katie’s window, where she was standing and waving.
I waved back but wasn’t sure she could see me so I stopped the car, opened my window, and stuck my arm out into the rain. I couldn’t stop grinning as I watched her disappear back into her room.
And just like that, I was on the other side of the window. I was four, maybe five years old. I’d climbed onto the orange Umbo shelving in my playroom to catch you as you were driving off to work.
You’d stopped, just as you always did, so that we could see each other. You’d put your thumb to your chest for the “I,” made a heart with your fingers for the “love,” and pointed at me through the window with your index finger for the “you.”
I’d returned the silent sentence and, as I always did, pulled my hands away from each other to add, “more.”
You were shaking your head and laughing as you mouthed, “Nope. I’m bigger.”
Finally, you drove away, off to your mysterious world of work and I disappeared back into the playroom.
As much as I know that I screw up some part of this parenting gig daily, this morning, looking through both sides of that window, remembering what it felt like to watch you drive away knowing — always, always knowing — that you’d be back, I had to believe that I am doing something right.
Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for showing me how.
Love you (more),