100 Percent

When my son was born, my family held a friendly wager.

My aunts, uncles, brothers and parents bet that I would lose my son as soon as we left the hospital.

They knew there was no way that poor innocent baby could survive my parenting skills.

Frankly, if they would have let me, I would have bet with them.

The first day I took him to daycare, I was so afraid I wouldn’t recognize my own baby that I scrutinized his face for an eternity.

Finally, I spotted a tiny mole on his ear.

All I needed to do was sort through the infants until I found the one with the mole.

Eventually, my family lost the bet.

The day my son turned 18, I raised my arms in a victory dance.

He flies fighter jets now.

When three pilots ejected within a year and all of the parachutes opened, the parachute-packers danced a victory dance, celebrating their 100 percent success rate.

One would hope that 100 percent success would not surprise parachute-packers, but if they could do it, maybe I could, too.

I decided to reach for my own 100 percent.

All I needed to do was keep my daughter alive.

Either her dad or I carried her until she was old enough to clutch my leg.

By the time she was 5 and headed to kindergarten, I had a pretty good mental image of her so the likelihood of losing her was diminished.

Both of my kids survived horse wrecks, chores done in bitter cold, trucks stuck in snowdrifts and my cooking.

Early on, they both learned to wear their seatbelts and carry snacks.

Last weekend, my 17-year-old daughter, Abby, graduated from high school.

She also competed at the 3-day state tennis tournament in Missoula.

On the second day of the tournament, I left the ranch and the last of lambing season in the capable hands of my friends and drove the 180 miles to watch Abby play what would be her last tennis competition.

Her brother flew in from Arizona to join her supporters for the third day of competition.

She earned fifth place in the tournament, collected her medal and we raced home to get ready for the graduation celebration brunch the next day.

I was in charge of the tater-tots.

Whispered conversations wondered how tater-tots could be cold and crunchy in the middle and still be soggy on the outside. Others declared the tater-tots only barely fit for the chickens.

Fortunately, my friends and family brought food so everyone had something else delicious to eat.

As I looked across the room, I realized these are the people who kept my kids alive and helped me beat my family’s wager.

Maybe they would help me maintain my 100 percent success rate.

Like most graduations, Abby’s celebrated accomplishments.

Rightly so.

Those kids have learned a lot.

Abby doesn’t even hang on my leg anymore.

But I can’t help feeling less like an empty nest and more like a launch pad.

I will deliver Abby to college in Texas in August.

My role will shift from feeding her to consulting with her about how to set her own boundaries so she stays safe and how to navigate a city, professors and her future.

I will lean on the same people to advise me on the advice I will offer to Abby.

After all, they got her this far.

She isn’t quite 18 yet, but if I can keep Abby alive for a few more months, I’ll reach my 100 percent success rate, knowing full well that 98 percent of the credit sat in my living room, eating a graduation brunch.

Even my crunchy-soggy tater-tots.