I am one eye blink away from fighting with my daughter
(again) about clothes. With no prior notice,
she went from loving cute and fluffy kitty shirts to the notion that she is a “tween”
in a few short weeks and needs to have a personal style. And she’s right-ish, but does it have to be
during this particular fashion era? I am
a moment away from losing my cool over one more pair of skinny jeans with
glitter and “awesome” emblazoned tee-shirt.
I know this is the
time developmentally to fit in and camouflage oneself as just one of the gang,
wearing what everyone else does, speaking their words, spouting their ideas,
and watching their shows. I just so
desperately want to skip over this and get to the place where she knows who she
is and marches to her drum. And I also
want to firmly place both feet on the brakes and resist with everything I have.
I know this is just the beginning. There will love interests that irk and
frighten me. There will be social
adventures and misadventures that will make me feel a wide range of
emotion. I know I will not always like
her friends. There will be life
decisions that I will wish she hadn’t made.
And those of which I am so proud
it could slay me. And it is such a
mismatch between her anticipation and excitement, and my sense of loss and awe.
I want to both shelter her and prepare her. I want to hold her and let her fly. I want…a path. And what I have is some hazy, water-stained,
fragmented document that simply says, “This is the way it is from here.” Splotched with the growing pain tears of
mothers past who whisper “Do you understand now?”
I want her to be herself; this amazing girl that has
stretched my body and my heart and my brain.
I want her to love who she is and stop trying to hide her imaginary
flaws and to stop trying to create curves where biologically they are not yet meant
to be. I want to slow things down. I want to go back to that moment when she
last asked me to tuck her in. If I had
only known it was the last time, I might have stayed a minute longer, rolled my
eyes a little less, and ignored the chores.
Because now it’s a thing. If I
ask to tuck her in, she’s “all good”. She no longer needs that hug or kiss
goodnight.
But I do.
