Chapter Six
My one
and only human baby is twelve years old and rapidly forging an identity
separate from mine. I admire Eva for her matter-of-fact approach to
adolescence, but I also wonder if it is a way to deflect attention from things
that may be really troubling her privately. She seems so well adjusted. Do we
all say that just before something big breaks?
This
stage has brought with it an uncertainty in my interpretations. In her younger
days, I felt totally confident in my ability to read her needs. Now, I
second-guess whether I’m approaching her from the right angle (the one that will
keep us close, communicating and clear with each other) on a daily basis. I’m
often afraid I’ll miss some small sign that needs my attention.
The
fact is…she’s doing great. Her grades are high, she has nice friends, she
interacts openly with her family, and she appeases her parents in all sorts of
ways that she has figured out to keep herself in good standing. But there’s
something underneath all that. Maybe it’s just the typical internal struggle to
burst through the childhood bubble and begin to grow a woman’s wings. But I often
feel something amiss. My radar is alert.
I
feel like I’m always poised and repositioning to catch her if she falls.
Similar to when the falls were literal as a toddler, but different in that the
potential falls are abstract and emotional and have so many more life-altering implications.
I do believe that a toddler should be allowed to fall and feel pain and strengthen
by getting back up again, as should young girls transforming into women. So I
try to relax, have fun with her, never nag, always encourage, maintain high
expectation for her accomplishments, prompt mindful behaviors, and above all
else, keep the communication lines juiced. I think that as long as she’s
talking, I can help her move through anything that emerges in her path. Even if
only by listening.
I
try not to judge. At least I try not to reveal
my judgments by those pesky, mamma facial expressions. She catches every single
one. She knows I’m trying to influence her opinions. It’s true. I don’t want
her to want to cover her beautiful face with make-up. I want her to like her
naturally wavy hair. I want her to dress for movement and comfort. I want her
to enjoy learning in school and be extra cool to her friends because she dares
to admit it with confidence. I want her to have a conscience for social change
and environmental activism. I want her to prioritize her health by eating more
vegetables. I want her to love walking to school, and I want her to love riding
a bicycle. I want her to value going to yoga with her parents. I want her to
want all her friends to hang out at our house. I want her to want me around and
feel bravely uninhibited on and off the metaphorical dance floor…and I want her
to dance! Sing! Paint! Climb the tree in the front yard! I miss seeing her
concentrating so beautifully on imaginative play and wild self-expression. I
want her to be proud and walk tall. I want her to throw those shoulders back
and burst forward knowing that what others admire above all else is confidence
and kindness.
I
want her to realize who she is now and to accept that as a woman, she will
always be growing and changing. I want her respect, admiration and friendship!
I feel as though she was chasing me, trying to pin me down, for over a decade
and now I’m chasing her. I want her! But I know, her circle must continue to
widen away from me. She must make herself distinct. I know she finds comfort in
me at times, though it’s mysterious how and when. She must try and try again to
deal independently with her internal voices, struggles and imbalances. Only
after successes can she run back to me, meeting me woman to woman and building
a friendship that will last us well into my cronehood.
I
also know that I love her unlike any love that can be described. Since her
birth, I’ve felt that a part of my body and soul was traipsing around outside of
where it safely belonged. It was just a tiny feeling at first, but the more
mobile she became the more pronounced was the pain of watching this piece of me
roam around the earth without a visible tether. Of course, I know she’s not me.
She’s a human being in her own right – separate and real. But the emotional
attachment is irrational. It’s both sweet and bitter. And it’s really really
big.
It
seems that mothers of little ones always find each other and group up for
support. Where are all the other mothers now? Soccer practice? Therapy? As I
write about these uncertainties and feelings, I can’t help but crave the
ability to share for a sense of relativity with others experiencing similar
circumstances. My friends and I talk about our business ventures, achievements,
hobbies and interests. We even still talk about relationships and romantic
pursuits, but not as much. Not with the sense of urgency and big-dealness as
before. But the kids? Almost never. We may share some of the more superficial
information: he is struggling in math, she thinks she likes this boy, he will
only wear black now, she got the part in that play, etc. But what I notice is
that we aren’t really talking about our identities as mothers, how we feel,
what we struggle with, and what we are enjoying.
I’ve
heard the claim to “busy” like it’s a medal or a trendy handbag. Maybe it’s
true that we all just busier these days. But, I tend to think that busy is a
decision we make aligned to our priorities. It’s a condition of our desires and
a socially accepted excuse to focus on those desires. Either way, I think I’ll
be looking for a few opportunities to commune around motherhood. That is one of
my desires. It is, afterall, a huge part of our identity as women. If we aren’t
mothering our own, we are mothering something
or someone. Guaranteed.
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