A Letter to My Grown Children:

How You Have Enriched Our Lives

by Robin Bonner

Dear Amie and Sarah,

We’re on our way to pick up Sarah from the bus, winding our way through the back roads east of Quakertown. Dad’s driving. It’s a perfect late spring–early summer evening: sun still high, windows open, breeze ruffling our hair, and Sonny Rollins floating from the car radio speakers. With Mother’s Day just past and Father’s Day upon us, I find myself thinking about the little girls you were, not too, too long ago and all the interesting twists and turns our lives have taken because of you.

Amie, you were our first born, the one who introduced us to parenthood: the overwhelming love and responsibility, the sheer exhaustion. And you did so with gusto. From the beginning, you wanted to figure things out, then do them all by yourself. You didn’t talk a lot at first; you were mostly thinking. Then, when you finally decided it was time, you were quite loquacious. On walks, you picked up every little thing and filled your pockets. And our pockets. And our hearts.

Grade school near home, out in the country, led to high school nearer the city, then college in Boston, and life as an engineer on the other side of the country. Life sure was simpler when you were little. Everything was an experiment—for you and for us. As you grew, always curious, you expanded your horizons to include softball, gymnastics, cross-country, space camp, civil air patrol, and science fairs, as well as dating, concerts, and proms. So we expanded our horizons, too. And, we loved every minute of it. Including when you met Todd, “Mr. Right,” and we at the same time gained a "son" and became "parents of the bride."

Amie, when you moved to Southern California, you added an another unexpected dimension to our lives. We've hiked the Sierra Nevada, toured the Jet Propulsion Laboratory and Edwards Air Force Base, attended Society of Women Engineers’ events, hit the West Coast beaches, shopped, and enjoyed Santa Ynez area wine tasting. Visiting you is just plain fun—vacationing at its best. Your desert home is a lovely retreat. Watching the sun rise over the desert from your patio each morning, with a view of mountains in all directions, is worth all those hours we put in to help you landscape your yard—with stones and cacti, of all things. You have boundless energy and an ability to manage projects that is second to none. When I come out to CA alone during Dad’s robotics season, you treat me like a queen. As my first-born daughter, you’re my wonderful friend and my special love.

By the time you came along, Sarah, parenthood was more routine. So, with you it was time to party! And the partying has never stopped. There was ballet and piano, bike rides and chickens, softball and basketball and track. And theater—summer camp, community productions, Walnut Street, New Mermaid Players, and MacGuffin. We drove, watched, videotaped, and applauded. Dad coached your teams; I helped your teachers. We both attended everything, and more than once.

Your love of acting took you and us to London and New York. We have taken in Disney, and Kander and Ebb, and Aristophanes, and Chekhov, and Shakespeare. Your love of singing, in care of the Bel Canto Children’s Choir, led us to London and Canterbury. And from that came our side trip to Paris to view the solar eclipse. Dad wouldn’t have dreamt that one up if it weren’t for you. You conquered The Big Apple when you went off to college. Now you live and work in NYC, and I will even brave driving across Manhattan to reach you in Queens so we can launch an adventure.

Sarah, Dad and I love coming into NYC for your shows or just to hang out. We still drive and watch and applaud (even if we can’t always video). Your zest for life and willingness to try new things is contagious. It’s a pick-me-up when our life gets too routine. Your sense of duty as “the daughter who lives nearby,” which brings you home for holidays, is admirable (unnecessary, but admirable). The fact that you’re still willing to sing with me at church is a precious gift. You’re my baby, my very special friend, my love. And, yes, we’ll go to the Tea Room while you’re home.

Through the years, you’ve both grown up. We’re now more your friends than your parents. But we still love you fiercely, more than a friend ever could. Despite that, though, we give you your space. Still, you email, text, and call us. Regularly. When you’re too busy, we miss it. When you’re lonely, sad, or bored, or just want to vent, we drop what we’re doing to listen. When your number appears on Caller ID and we hear your voice in our ear, we brighten. Even if, technically, it’s at the worst possible time for us, and we’re chit-chatting from a vortex of activity, it still makes our day.

We still love whatever you do, and we still manage to “get into it”—whatever it is—as we always did. Everything is cool when we do it with you. When you were little, we were living life day to day. Today, we’re amazed that although time has flown, our relationship with you hasn’t changed. We still love you more than ever, and there’s no one else we’d rather be with. Not that we don’t have lives of our own, or even know where you are all the time. But, we’re still your parents above all, and we’re always with you, if much of the time only in spirit.

I know I speak for Dad as well.

Finally, it’s amazing to be mother to you two children, who are so different, and yet to love each of you as though you were an only child. And, even after all these years, to realize the richness that each of you separately, and both of you together, (still) brings to our lives.

All I can say is, “Thank you!”

Love, Mom
xoxoxoxox