![]() ![]() ![]() "Bojinka."įor the retired Philippine policewoman, that word and the nightmare scenario it evoked had receded into distant memory these past six years. The footage of the hijacked airliner bursting into flame made Fariscal bolt upright. "Quick," he instructed, "turn on your television." Aida Fariscal had gone to bed early on September 11, only to be awakened by a frantic colleague. Temporarily mine to protect and nurture until they are ready to shine on their own.It was already evening, here on the other side of the international date line, when the first plane struck the North Tower of the World Trade Center. Brilliant and dazzling, precious and rare. They are two of the brightest jewels of my life. Old habits die hard.Īs much as the thought truly sends shivers up my spine, I am their temporary custodian my job is to prepare them to soar. And full disclosure, each night when I kiss them goodnight, I jiggle them gently to hear them breathe. I’m here to take care of them and love them, for we are only temporary custodians of beauty.”ĭon’t get me wrong: The thought of my kids leaving and going to college makes me very sad, but I still wouldn’t discourage their wanderlust. “I’ve never thought of my jewelry as trophies. But so does Elizabeth Taylor, and I’ve never met a diamond I didn’t like: This was a perfectly fine quote, and in many ways it spoke to me. They are not ours to keep, but to teach how to soar on their own.” “To raise a child who is comfortable enough to leave you, means you’ve done your job. I guess I can’t hold too tightly to something that’s not mine to begin with. I don’t find it sad to see my kids grow, blossom, and step into their life’s milestones. His excitement was so infectious, how could I possibly be sad? I see how excited they are about the journey before them, and I can’t see any other option but going along for the ride. I honestly wasn’t sad when my son started pre-K. I am genuinely excited for my daughter’s third-grade year. I love that they can easily explain to the doctor what ails them. I love the fact that when she does throw up, my daughter can aim perfectly into the toilet. I love the fact that my son can tell me that the medicine burns or that he feels like he might throw up. I love that they are developing opinions and tastes that may or may not align with mine. I love to see them navigate through life and ask me thoughtful questions. I love that my kids are growing up - is that so wrong? I love the people they are becoming. So do I want to go back to this place and time? Hardly. I was willing to give money to a stranger just so I could quickly get this baby to stop crying. I arrived at the clinic with the cash in hand ready and willing to hand it to whomever was in line ahead of me. I was frazzled from the day and was not interested in waiting endlessly to see a doctor. My mom had recently come for a visit and she left a crisp hundred-dollar bill on my nightstand (that’s who she is and what she does). I decided to take him to the pediatric after-hours clinic, and with my 3-year-old in tow, I had a plan. We had enjoyed roughly four hours of an eat, sleep, cry cycle, and I had just about had it. I remember in particular one very long day when my son was about 4 months old, and I just could not get him to settle down. Back to the time when my son would cry in spits and spurts for no apparent reason, and nothing I could do seemed to soothe him? Oh yes, please, sign me up for more of that. You want to go back to the endless nights of staring at your newborn daughter for hours on end watching the rise and fall of her chest just to know with certainty that she’s still breathing? No, thank you, I actually like to spend my nights sleeping. ![]() Sure, I have wonderful memories of when my children were babies, but I have no interest in going back there. ![]() Picture after picture is captioned, “I miss my babies!” or “Time please stop!” or “I wish I could go back!” I see these pictures, and while I love a quick dose of nostalgia, my first response is usually, “Like, how far back are we talking?” But it doesn’t matter even if so.” Recently, though, I can’t help but question why I don’t feel the same way as seemingly so many others. Almost daily, I stop and ask myself the same question, “Is it just me?” and I promptly reassure myself and answer, “Of course not, dear. ![]()
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