My oldest daughter is now a college senior. And so began the first of the lasts for her…her last college drop off. (Although I’ve since been told that senior year is a bit like Fight Club; the first rule of senior year: don’t talk about senior year.)

I think she doesn’t want to talk about it because then it makes the end seem more real and more near. I totally get the dread of senior year. It’s that realization that the perfect world of college is nearly over, and the real, grown-up world where beer costs more than a quarter is breathing down your neck, holding a packet of student loan repayment coupons. I was so full of that dread, I contemplated graduate school, just to hang on a bit longer.

For my oldest, that dread was paired with a secondary fear. We started talking about her graduation, and how I most certainly would cry. It was then that my daughter conveyed she worried that post graduation there would be no further milestones that would make me proud of her.

Gulp.

How could she possibly think that? Do she and her sisters not know how proud I am of them, of the people they have become? That I marvel at every new skill and bit of knowledge they acquire?

I vividly remember being at the wedding of a college roommate. My oldest was just two at the time. My roommate asked me how my daughter was, and instead of just saying “she’s great, thanks,” which would have been the polite answer to give a bride who was actively greeting guests, I went a different route.

I started on this very detailed description of how just that week, my daughter had picked up the lid from the milk off of the counter with her tiny fingers, placed it on top of the gallon jug opening, and screwed the lid on. She had never done it before. I was convinced she was displaying some genius level of fine motor skills, and was certain no other 2-year-old had ever done such a thing.

(Even typing this, I can’t believe my roommate didn’t give me the “oh, another-first-person-to-have-a-baby eye roll.) Instead, my roommate, childless at the time (and god bless her for this), shared my wide-eyed enthusiasm for this monumental, obviously never-before-accomplished-by-another-toddler task. 

How to explain to my daughters that I have that sense of awe of them all the time? (Although for most of my friends’ sakes I have tamped down my enthusiasm for public gushing, saving that for their dad and grandparents.)

Still, my heart swells all the time.

When they speak out against social injustice.

When they stand up for each other.

When they call an Uber rather than get behind the wheel if they have been drinking.

When they ask my opinion.

When they share their own opinions.

When they are kind and respectful to anyone they come in contact with in any kind of service capacity.

When they tell me their career goals are to help people.

When they ask to spend time with their grandparents.

When they say thank you.

When they Facetime me just to say hi.

When I see the kinds of people they choose to let into their lives.

When I see how they have grown and evolved when they have gotten hurt.

When they are a good friend.

When they laugh at themselves and remind me to do the same.

When they drag me to the gym and get me to close out the workout with a minute-long plank when I’m lobbying that it should only be 45 seconds.

When they choose to travel the world without me and come back home grateful and humbled for the experience.

When they hold their own in an argument on politics.

When they recognize that the opinions widely held by the reasonably conservative community where they grew up do not have to be theirs. And they can respect those opinions that differ from their own.

When they get that equal rights for everyone, doesn’t mean fewer rights for anyone and understand that rights aren’t pie.

There is a scene in the movie “The Sixth Sense” where Haley Joel Osment’s character is telling his mom about the dead people he sees, including his own grandmother. He tells her a story about how the grandmother told him to tell his mom the answer to her question she asked at the grandmother’s grave was “every day.” He then asks his mom: “what did you ask?”

His mom answers: “Do I make you proud?”

So yes, to my sweet oldest (and your darling sisters): college graduation is not the end of the line for the pride train. It’s just one stop. And there’s another stop every day after that.