By Karen Robbins
That best academy, a mother's knee.
~James Russell Lowell
With a flip of her head, my daughter cast her beautiful copper-colored curls over one shoulder. She grabbed another towel from the laundry basket and folded it into thirds, then in half, the way I had taught her. She and her husband of less than a year took advantage of our invitation to bring their laundry along when they came for dinner.
That best academy, a mother's knee.
~James Russell Lowell
With a flip of her head, my daughter cast her beautiful copper-colored curls over one shoulder. She grabbed another towel from the laundry basket and folded it into thirds, then in half, the way I had taught her. She and her husband of less than a year took advantage of our invitation to bring their laundry along when they came for dinner.
Feeling a bit impatient, her husband grabbed one of the towels to help with the folding. He doubled it over twice and tossed it onto the pile.
"That's not how you fold a towel," she told him.
"Well, how do you fold it then?" he asked.
She picked up his towel, did the triple fold and then the double, and replaced it on the pile as I watched and tried to hide a smile.
As she picked up the next towel, she sat taller and with more authority. Her blue-green eyes flashed.
"That's how you fold a towel."
"Oh yeah," he answered. "And who taught you how to fold a towel?"
She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at me. "My mother did."
Now I was not only fighting to hide a smile but tears as well. Several weeks earlier my husband and I had accompanied our daughter to meet with her biological parents for the first time since she had been removed from their home at age three. At age six, she was available for adoption and we fell in love with her. The agency gave us quite a bit of background when we adopted her, including the names of her birth parents. The plan had always been to allow her to meet them when she became an adult.
When we met her birth mother, I found myself staring at an older version of my daughter -- the same copper-colored hair, blue-green eyes, pale skin, and dimpled cheek. My dark hair, brown eyes, and olive skin emphasized my status as the adoptive mother. I wondered what other traits had been passed on to her by her birth parents. Was there anything of me in her?
With a jerk of her thumb on that afternoon of towel folding, she gave me the greatest gift -- the answer to my question. She may not have gotten her hair or eye color or her curls from me, but she did learn how to fold a towel. Hopefully there are many more lessons learned, qualities shared, love infused that will not desert her. Although not genetic, little bits of me will stay with her forever.
"That's not how you fold a towel," she told him.
"Well, how do you fold it then?" he asked.
She picked up his towel, did the triple fold and then the double, and replaced it on the pile as I watched and tried to hide a smile.
As she picked up the next towel, she sat taller and with more authority. Her blue-green eyes flashed.
"That's how you fold a towel."
"Oh yeah," he answered. "And who taught you how to fold a towel?"
She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at me. "My mother did."
Now I was not only fighting to hide a smile but tears as well. Several weeks earlier my husband and I had accompanied our daughter to meet with her biological parents for the first time since she had been removed from their home at age three. At age six, she was available for adoption and we fell in love with her. The agency gave us quite a bit of background when we adopted her, including the names of her birth parents. The plan had always been to allow her to meet them when she became an adult.
When we met her birth mother, I found myself staring at an older version of my daughter -- the same copper-colored hair, blue-green eyes, pale skin, and dimpled cheek. My dark hair, brown eyes, and olive skin emphasized my status as the adoptive mother. I wondered what other traits had been passed on to her by her birth parents. Was there anything of me in her?
With a jerk of her thumb on that afternoon of towel folding, she gave me the greatest gift -- the answer to my question. She may not have gotten her hair or eye color or her curls from me, but she did learn how to fold a towel. Hopefully there are many more lessons learned, qualities shared, love infused that will not desert her. Although not genetic, little bits of me will stay with her forever.
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