Tuesday Morning

My 8-year-old daughter is going through a phase. I suppose it’s classic, but it’s sometimes painful; painful to see her so uncomfortable, and also for me to be, like a punching bag, on the receiving end of it all. She is desperate to be independent yet regresses and holds on to being a baby. As if she knows that once it’s over there will be no turning back. She pleads with me to allow her to walk home alone from school, but bursts into tears if I’m waiting for her upstairs, and not out front, when the bus drops her off on a fieldtrip day. She no longer allows me to hug her in front of my friends, but in the morning, outside her school, she holds my face in her hands and kisses me on the lips. “Goodbye Mommy, I love you, have a good day,” she says. Then, as she heads toward the door, she turns back and waves to me three times before making her way inside. At that moment I feel relief that the struggle of the morning is over; “Brush your teeth … it’s not time to read now … please tie your own shoelaces,” but I also feel a twinge of sadness.

I understand the importance of living in the moment; I am someone who feels intensely the bittersweet of the passing of time, and I am uncomfortable that I should be wishing my little girl would just hurry and grow up. When she argues with me or disputes what I say, or cries because she can’t have her way, I take comfort that this won’t last forever. I look forward to helping her with her apartment or dorm, and being there when she gets her heart broken for the first time -- I’ll know how she hurts and how she’ll heal, just as my mother did … and still does. These are things worth looking forward to, but they’re also worth waiting for. I get caught up in myself, in my creative pursuits or my intense need for time alone, and lately I’m often less than patient when she pushes and pulls me through her struggle between wanting to move forward and wanting to go back. And I’m pretty good at letting her pull away from me, because after all, it’s healthy; it’s correct, it’s what she needs to do to get to the woman she’s on her way to becoming. But there will be a moment when those kisses outside the school will stop. It will be obvious, and as sure as my coffee is hot in the morning, I will feel it.

When Annie was a newborn baby I remember changing her clothes for the very first time. I burst into tears when I saw her fragile and beautiful little body because I felt as if somehow, I betrayed her by giving birth to her. That inside me she was safe and happy, and by letting her out made it inevitable, she would one day experience pain. Of course I know that she has her own plan; she did long before I knew her, but some days I feel so weak when it comes to that huge place in my heart that is only for her. And like her, I too am going through a phase. Wanting so much to move forward yet being so desperate to hold on to her … and never let her go.