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From the moment that she came home from the hospital, all soft and pink, I knew that my time with her was limited. I recognized her for the precious gift that she was - an amazing creation by my great God. I prayed diligently that I would be the best parent that I could be for her.
How I cherished those first moments, watching her sleep with the dark eyelashes caressing her smooth cheeks. I loved to feed her, to bathe her, to dress her in frilly dresses that would need to be changed again and again as she spit up on the lace. Those messy diapers and midnight feedings were never too much of a burden. She was my cherub, my joy, my life.
All too fast, the helpless infant grew to be a curious toddler. Even then she had a strong independent streak. She always wanted to do things on her own, and it was often hard for me to let go. I wanted to protect her, to keep her from scraping her knees on the sidewalk. But she had to learn to fly for herself. I wouldn’t be with her forever.
The years raced by in a blur of activities – her first bicycle, her first day of school, her first lost tooth, her first trophy, her first crush, her first heart break. We rode out the trauma of those fledgling years, and before I was ready, she was standing at the front of an auditorium, giving a commencement speech. Her smile eclipsed the sun when she was handed her high school diploma. I cheered her on from my seat on the sidelines and I wondered how I had gone from holding her hand to watching her fly.
My little girl is all grown up now. She’s ready to soar. Last week, she graduated with her Masters. Yesterday, she packed her bags. She left this morning. An important job in the capital is waiting for her capable hands.
I’m so proud of her!
I raised her to stretch her wings.
I raised her to fly.
So why does it hurt so much?
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