Revelation

I am standing in the school supply aisle

and it hits me so hard I have to stop.

Like, damn.

Okay.

This is happening.

I am looking at these crayons, the good ones,

and suddenly I am remembering every single year

I stood in this exact kind of aisle

trying to figure out how to make everything work.

And yes, sometimes I bought the name brand stuff.

Sometimes I wanted my kids to have the good crayons,

the good paper, the good folders.

But it was not easy.

It was never easy.

It was always a math problem in my head

and a prayer that the debit card would not embarrass me.

Before my husband,

it was just me and my oldest.

And she really did get the short end of the stick.

Not because I did not love her

I loved her with everything I had

but because I was young

and broke

and scared

and trying to figure out motherhood

while also trying to figure out myself.

I did not know what I was doing.

I was guessing.

I was surviving.

I was hoping she would not notice

how hard I was trying to make everything look okay

when it was not.

Then life changed.

I met my husband.

We worked hard, both of us.

We stretched money, stretched time, stretched patience.

We bought school supplies together.

We made it work together.

But even then, it was not easy.

It was never easy.

We were always doing the okay, if we get this,

we have to wait on that dance.

And then, after the last one graduated,

I did not stop.

I did not collapse.

I did not say, well, that is it.

I turned around and put myself through school.

Me.

The woman who had already lived a whole lifetime

of doing things the hard way.

I earned an AA.

I earned a bachelors.

I wrote papers at midnight.

I studied when I was exhausted.

I pushed myself through classes

with the same stubbornness I used to push through life.

And half the time I still did not know what I was doing.

But I did it anyway.

And now I am here with money in my pocket,

real money,

the kind that could buy the name brand crayons

without thinking twice.

I could buy the thick paper, the fancy backpack,

the one with seventeen pockets and a water bottle holder

that looks like it is ready for a survival expedition.

But I do not need any of it.

Not one thing.

My kids are grown.

They are living their lives.

They do not need crayons or paper or backpacks.

They do not need me in this aisle anymore.

And I am just standing here,

feeling this wave of emotion

that hits so hard I have to stop moving.

My life has changed.

My life has changed.

And it hits with this weird mix of sadness, pride, guilt,

and holy hell, what now.

Because here is the part that knocks the wind out of me

I spent thirty years thinking this aisle meant something.

That being here meant I was doing motherhood right.

That the crayons and paper and backpacks

were proof that I was showing up.

And then I spent years showing up for myself

earning degrees I never thought I would have.

And now I am standing here with nothing to buy

and it feels like the ground shifts under me.

Like I am supposed to know who I am now

but I do not.

I really do not.

I did not know what I was doing back then.

I did not know what I was doing in college.

I do not totally know what I am doing now.

But the truth is loud in this aisle

I made it.

They made it.

I made me.

And now I have to figure out who I am

without a school supply list in my hand.

And that hits harder than anything.