In fact, until recently, I had even thought the line was overplayed and completely cliche.
That is, until Annie and I took Etta to her first week of nursery at our church. You see, at our LDS church, Etta can go to nursery once she reaches 18 months old--which means for the final two hours of church, she's away from us with the volunteer nursery teachers.
But it means more than that. It means she's growing up. It means it's the first time she's leaving me to go on to something different. To go onto a different stage in her life.
It means, I was crushed. It means that, parting was such sweet sorrow. Sweet because she's growing up and she's becoming a little girl and she's embracing the changes so well and she's developing perfectly and she's full of personality and she's full of eagerness and genuine want to be independent. Sorrow because she's my little girl. She is developing towards and embracing a stage where she doesn't necessarily need me around to function.Sweet sorrow.
Once, a couple of weeks ago, she caught a glimpse of the toys in the nursery room and each time we've walked by, she's wanted to go in. So, when the day came that we were finally going to open the door, she was as eager as she's been for anything--despite the picture not completely showing that.
We walked into the nursery room together and she ran as fast as her little legs could take her to the plethora of toys that sat against the far wall. Annie approached the nursery teacher and informed her that it was Etta's first week in nursery. The teacher smiled very sweetly. Annie then walked over to where I was sitting across the room, leaning on a table. I told Annie I'd stay for a bit to see how Etta does. Annie let me and she left.
I sat there for five minutes. There were about five other parents in the room with their children. Some were playing, some were crying and sitting next to their parents. Etta, didn't really even notice I was in the room or that Annie had left--she was mesmerized by the toys.
For that five minutes, I tuned out the noise. I tuned out the chaos. I just watched Etta. And I cried. I literally cried.
And during that five minutes, I asked myself "how do dads do it? How do they let their little girls grow up? How do they let their little girls go?"
And I started thinking of dads I know.
How does a dad cope with sending his daughter and her husband off to the East Coast to build a life--nearly 2000 miles away?
How does a dad send his youngest daughter to graduate school? Not her first degree, but her second degree. How does he handle watching that type of growth?
How does a dad sit by and watch his daughter go to San Francisco to work as a nanny for a family there? How does he sleep? How does he cope?
How can a dad handle the emotions of his three little girls now bringing their four little kids over to his house?
What is that keeps a dad watching his child undergo traumatic illness and even death, keep going?
What does a dad feel when he thinks of his once infant daughter halfway through first grade?
How does a dad take his daughter to her first day of school? (This will be me, by the way).
I can't even take my daughter to nursery without shedding tears. Truth be told, I can't even write this blogpost right now at 1am without crying. I was barely able to listen to Etta cry for 30 minutes tonight after I put her to bed before she finally gave up and fell asleep (a huge step for me, I should say).
I used to think I'd wish for a way to see 15, 20, 30 years in the future. Now, I know I'd never wish for that. Ever. Instead, I want each day to be as long as possible. Instead, I want to cherish every single second, minute, hour, day, week, year.
Because, I think I know how the dad's mentioned above do it. They do it because they've spent the prior 4-30 plus years embracing everything. They do it because they've kept a real perspective on their relationship with their children. They do it because they're dads. I hope I can be that tough.
The sweet nursery teacher walked over and interrupted my thoughts and tears. She said a sentence I'll never forget. "You can probably go. She's doing just fine. We know where you'll be and we'll come get you if we need you."I stood up, hoping Etta would see me about to leave and want to come with me. Instead, she barely turned around. She, instead, shot her attention to a slide that was in the corner. I walked out and realized that there was a peep hole on the door so that the parents could see in to the classroom. I smiled, thinking, this is where I'll see Etta come running to the door that I just walked through to leave.
She didn't. She kept playing. I went and sat down with Annie in the Sunday School class. I lasted about five minutes before making my way to the peep hole. She was playing. She was happy.
I made three more trips to the peep hole in the next hour. I even managed to not go rescue her when I did actually hear her crying (I later learned that food actually came to the rescue of Etta, once again, and she was fine). She lasted the full two hours. Perfectly. She even colored a picture that I've put up on the fridge in the kitchen. I am so proud of that picture. I am so proud of her.
By now, it's public knowledge that little Etta is going to have a sibling. We are super excited! I can't wait to meet this child. I can't wait to watch this new baby grow and develop. I can't wait to sit there in exactly two years from now and cry in a nursery room somewhere while that child runs to the toys, with his/her older sister Etta leading the way and showing them the ropes.
I can't wait to watch Etta teach her brother/sister all about putting cereal down every heating vent in the house and how important that type of work is. Certainly she knows that it's her responsibility to teach her sibling how to properly throw a tantrum, etc.
Mostly, I can't wait for my sense of pride to be doubled. I can't wait for the joy that will come with watching another child grow up.
Because really, it won't be long before "Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow(S)."
And I think I'm ok with that. (I write through the tears).
