Suzanne and I finished school on the same day, May 4th. Since then we’ve spent almost every moment in each other’s company. Suzy and I walk Vivian to and from school each day, and in between we do stuff. Together. Side by side. My best bud. My little shadow.

This stretch of time didn’t sneak up on us. It’s been highly anticipated and even counted down for weeks…maybe months. Mostly by Diggs, who could taste that Daycare Expense column vanishing from the monthly budget. But Suzanne was giddy at the prospect of being home all day, sans Big Sis. As if she was finally getting her revenge for not being included in the past 2 years of staying home for parent-teacher conference and inservice days.

On the inaugural Monday, Suz woke up at 5:30 am, squealing, Eeeeee…today’s the first day, Mom!  That’s when I felt the sharp drop in my stomach…a thin veil of sweat…blurred vision. Oh, hell. She’s expecting fun and adventure. New and different. And not the kind where you drink 3 cups of coffee and binge on Call the Midwife. Damn it.

I tried to make eye contact with my husband, hoping for some gesture of moral support. Maybe a shared, knowing glance indicating, Whoa, we’ve got a live one here! But he was nowhere to be found. That’s because he was already showered, dressed, pouring coffee, and humming the chorus to “Free Fallin’” by the time we joined him in the kitchen. As I rifled through the cabinet, hoping to find some forgotten Bailey’s, Suz suggested we make breakfast in bed for Vivian. We could make some pancakes! With chocolate chip faces! And some hot chocolate! And get some flowers from outside and put them on a tray!  She started pulling out ingredients, and I looked desperately over at Diggs, who just smiled, said “Love you girls!” and escaped.  That’s when I vowed to recycle all of his Fine Homebuilding magazines.

Thus, the start of Day 1. The next two weeks were a hodgepodge. Some days, we did have grand adventures. Like meeting the baby goats at Deanna Rose, which I feel it’s my duty as a human being to share:

 

We went to a strawberry patch and got to know some new friends (and future classmates!):

 

And in what I consider to be one of my proudest parenting moments, we worked in the kitchen. I hate cooking, but it’s probably not fair to pass that down to my kids. Plus it’s a life skill, and you’re supposed to help them with those. So I bit my tongue and pretended I was having the time of my life.  That’s 50% of parenting anyway, right?  We made a really messy, but really delicious veggie manicotti. We baked some terrible chocolate chip cookies, and some above-average lemon sugar cookies. The stuff that turned out okay, we shared with people we loved.

We painted our toenails. We went shopping and tried on clothes (and offered brutally honest fitting room feedback.) We read Dr. Seuss until I wasn’t the one reading anymore. We took naps. We made up a secret handshake. And a girl-power mantra that we used to help each other get over the big hills on the way to Heatherstone Elementary.

We got on each other’s nerves. We bickered. We rolled our eyes at each other. She told me I was the worstest mom in the world. I told her if she didn’t go play by herself for one hour, I would donate all of her toys to children who actually liked to use their imagination.

And we talked. A lot. About everything. From what might happen in the next chapter of Harry Potter: Prisoner of Azkaban to which of her babies’ middle names I liked the best.

An especially memorable conversation, driving through a rural area:

Suzy:  Mom, I don’t get it…there are all these baby cows, but…how do they get made?

Me: Well…when cows get close together, the male cow gives off a chemical that is absorbed by the female cow, which—

Suzy: Okay, I don’t even know what you’re saying right now! What do those words even mean? 

Me: That’s fair….Hmmmm…Say, are you in the mood for a slush from Sonic?!?!

(This served two purposes: buying time on an inevitable conversation, and providing a few minutes of silence in the car.)

I’m not often plagued by Mom Guilt; I think we’re all trying to do the best we can, and our best is usually good enough. But lately, I look at Suzanne and feel like I’m missing some memories. I’ll see pictures or videos of her toddling around, or sporting her 3 year- old bob with bangs, and sometimes I don’t remember being there for the “live” version.

Everything with Vivian is a first. Then, a mere 21 months later, Suz is going through the same experiences, but in her own unique way.  Am I catching those moments? Am I relishing them?

I know I did these last few weeks, which she coined, “Just Mom & Suzy Days.”

What a gift.