GIving Thanks, and a Few Birthday Gifts, as Well

I have always loved Thanksgiving,  but never as much as I did 18 years ago.  That year,  I relished my "two Thanksgiving" schedule, happily (and literally) bouncing from one household to the other, one feast to the next. 

Like the turkeys I was ravaging, I, too, had popped my red-plastic timer, officially "done" and ready for the next stage.  Unlike my poultried friends, though, the next morning, it would be a doctor's knife that would make the first cut across my skin.

I have had 18 years to adjust to being a mother of a daughter, a situation I was ill prepared for, both then and now.  A person would think that I might have a better understanding than I do of what it means to raise a daughter.  Alas, most days, I find myself as naive as I was when told by the surgeon that "It's a girl!  It's a girl!"

Fortunately, "naive" is not a feared or unfamiliar state for me.  In fact, I have lived much of my life cloaked in the warmth of unknowing and I rather like it.  Because I am naive, for instance, I have seldom felt the compunction to shape Allison Shepard Holt into some idealized feminine representation.

Never one to have a pink bow in my purse--more or less, a purse to put one in--I mostly have made it up as I go.  And it is a tribute to Allison's essence--her flexibility, her kindness, her innate smarts and well-roundedness--that she has approached this life as my daughter in a way not unlike Ella Fitzgerald facing a long, as-yet-worked-out scat session.  And the results have been surprising and enjoyable.

It is ironic when a parent first realizes the depths of her love, when she knows--beyond a doubt--that she would set aside her own life to extend or enrich that of her child's.  And then, in the next breath, to already start missing that child.

Come 7:30 a.m. tomorrow--November 24, 2013--Allison Holt officially takes over her own life.  Suddenly old enough for cigars, tattoos and a life in the military (my own selfish fingers crossed that none of these might lure her),  the mere act of waking up entitles her to more time in the driver's seat (not that we're buying you a car, Allison. Because we're not.  Keep pumping those bike tires!) 

And me?  Well, I'd best find a comfortable spot along the roadside, one in which I can catch a clear view of her from time to time, as Allison pumps her legs and arms, running into the future that is hers.  Whatever level of faking it I've practiced so far in her life (and it is a commendable, at times significant level), I'd better be ready to ramp it up even more.

After all, high-school graduation, college, an apartment, a career, heartbreak and new loves all await her, each looking to her for its cue.  As for the parents?  The rear-view mirror is a position few parenting books warn us of.  I suppose that's because such a stark and certain reality might stifle the further production of the human race.

Ah, but Thanksgiving is hardly a time for stifling.  Rather, it is quite the opposite--a time to pause and pile on, a time of feasting and loving and reflecting on all the ways that we are blessed, followed by a nice stretch on the couch, laying warm in the afterglow of so much good. And, for me, Thanksgiving also is a time when, somehow, I manage to cram inside me even more love for Allison Shepard Holt, the daughter who has filled my life with so much laughter and joy, love and generosity.

Happy birthday, Allison.  I'm mighty glad you are here.

Love, Mom