As I assist my beautiful teenage daughters to get ready for their Homecoming dance – the dresses, the shoes, the hair, the makeup – I remember far too well my own Homecomings at my own high school many years ago. Home coming. Coming home. A rite of passage for Americans, as old and young, we gather back at our childhood schools and reminisce. I was so very young, as are they. So very young, indeed, yet trying on womanhood for size and seeing how it feels. Watching these young ladies, my daughters, slightly gawky, slightly insecure, terribly beautiful, and now very tall, stepping out all dressed up makes me feel proud, yet wistful. I can’t help but wonder where the little children who populated the last two decades of my life have gone.

A child is someone who passes through your life and disappears into an adult. We watch it happen and cannot believe it is so. Sometimes I feel sad and miss the funny little souls that they were. Even slightly panicked, as though I’d misplaced those children somehow, when I wasn’t paying attention. Look away and you’ve missed their childhood. When you’re in the thick of it, the days feel long, and it feels as though life will always be like this. The routine will never vary. You’re in it for life. They will be young forever. But that’s just a mirage in the mind of a sleep-deprived mother. Because they do grow up whether you are a dutiful mom or not. There’s not stopping the swift passage of time.

As we roll forward into thoughts of college and the next step in the lives of my kids, I miss the mommy that I was and the simple life we had – playing at the park, eating ice cream, napping, taking long walks with the double stroller, somehow managing to get them both back into their car seats, folding up all 40 pounds of that stroller, and tossing it into the back of the faithful minivan. Spending time learning and laughing together.

I fondly remember nighttime prayers and endless choruses of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” That particular song was slow and gentle and soothed them into a deep sleep. I only remembered a few verses but would sing them over and over again until either they fell asleep, or I did. I wondered if the lyrics might scare them but of course they heard the song the way a child might, in words that make sense to them. “Swing Low, Sweet Cherry Eyes…” “Cherry Eyes.” That’s what my daughter thought I was saying. No rhyme or reason needed. So funny and dear. It was simply the soothing quality of my voice that they craved at the end of the day.

 A year and a half away from high school graduation, and I am feeling grateful for the times we had. That I succeeded in raising them alone though I had no idea what I was doing. Never did find an effective handbook with all the Motherhood How-To’s. Grateful that their addict father didn’t damage them irreparably along the way. I was always there to pick up the pieces and be the responsible parent they needed. Grateful that they love me and that we all love each other as they’ve grown up. A lot of families are not so fortunate. Grateful every time I hear them say, “I love you, Mom,” even as they are running out the door. Grateful that I represent safety to them. Grateful for the dear children I thought I would never have.

I still don’t know how to do this motherhood thing and have surely made thousands of mistakes. But I am still here, and I have my daughters’ hands gripped in my own. One child for each hand. And as such, we will travel through the rest of my days until they take the lead and I fade into beloved memory, many years from now. Though we live in a society that fears old age, I welcome each day and every day I can spend with these two souls. My daughters. As they travel through life, I am their guide. How did all this happen? Who knows? Life is ever mysterious and beautiful.